


To Forge and Temper

by AdraCat



Series: To Weather the Dark Collection [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Actually Glacial Burn, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Crimson Flower, Cultural Differences, Duty, F/F, Forget Canon, Liberal use of headcanon, Loyalty, Morally Grey Characters, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-War Aftermath, Slow Burn, Smithing Things, Spoilers, Then subverting it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-01-25 00:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 200,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21347059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdraCat/pseuds/AdraCat
Summary: A journey between two women amid the ashes of war. One chained to the past, the other unwilling to face it.A tale of forgiveness disguised as vengeance.(Standalone story set within the TWtD continuity.)
Relationships: Cassandra & Christophe, Catherine/Shamir Nevrand, Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Shamir Nevrand/Original Male Character
Series: To Weather the Dark Collection [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485548
Comments: 513
Kudos: 398





	1. Prologue: Conceptualization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Notice: Prior knowledge of To Weather the Dark's events is highly suggested, but not necessary for this fic. Please keep in mind that any canon divergence, or events you are not familiar with, is likely due to what happened there. This includes details about Catherine's family and a prior confrontation with Edelgard. Spoilers for Crimson Flower abound.  
With that out of the way I do hope you enjoy~

  
  


**Prologue: Conceptualization**

  
  


In the wake of Edelgard von Hresvelg’s betrayal, there was only silence. The black steel of the Empire faded into shadow, as did the pale of ashen hair and the gleam of a golden sword. In their wake lay the remaining colors of the world. Catherine’s burning hatred, red like the haze of Thunderbrand. Seteth’s wan complexion, marked with shades of sickly yellow. Gilbert, lips pulled into a tight frown, whose face was a mottled tapestry of puce. Alois, uncommonly silent; the blue of his eyes watery and somber. But to Shamir’s observant eye, it was Rhea who painted the air most of all.

The woman, visage far from the calm mien she typically donned, was shaking with the weight of recent events. Color suffused her cheeks in swathes of red and pink. Her hands shook, knuckles bleached to bone and nails biting into flesh. Crimson seeped from her palm. The green of her hair appeared to darken, though perhaps it was merely the dim lighting around them. How strange to see the woman so undone; visibly incensed by the children who fled from the tomb. Shamir watched her struggle in silence. She blinked as Rhea took a steadying breath and turned to face her loyal knights. The Archbishop’s eyes burned with a myriad of things yet unspoken — each more complex and vivid than the last.

In the end, she swept her hand forth in a cutting motion. It was a blatant dismissal, and Shamir did not see any reason to disobey. She bowed at the waist, as had become her custom in this strange land. Her fellow knights followed suit. Catherine’s blackening expression did not escape her, nor did Alois’ halting steps. Both betrayed themselves at this moment in time, though for very different reasons. Yet Shamir was a spectator by nature. Passive as a river. _נכון, שלמה?_

There wasn’t a need for pointless recourse. Each person was liable to hold their thoughts close to the chest. Shamir would not be held responsible for anyone’s fate, but her own. So it was that she left the others behind, giving little thought to Rhea’s seething fury. Yet the woman’s emotions nipped at her heels. It was a gnawing ache that demanded satiation; a jagged maw poised to devour. All the while, Shamir pretended not to notice. A safer means of existence, and preferable to risking the unknown. Rhea was far more volatile than she appeared. Catherine would have scolded her for these thoughts, she knew. She would have interpreted the frank observation as a slight upon the Archbishop. The woman’s devotion was estranged from her own.

The thought was tainted with a tangible bitterness Shamir could not help. She emptied her mind and continued onward. As she had done for years. As she would keep doing until the end.

_Perhaps that was the start of it all; or merely the tinder upon which the fire caught its embers. Shamir could not say when the fabric of her loyalty gave way. Only that it did, and nothing could be mended from the frayed strands. Was it when the woman with Solomon’s smile turned her back? Or far sooner? Maybe it happened when the girl with a viper’s stare became more than a title. A child, even if only in body, and one she had once known and bled with. Bonds forged in blood were often stronger than those made in peace. _

_Whatever the truth, it led to every action she made henceforth. Every weakness in the chain of service she had willing borne. Every betrayal that would cut her further from Catherine’s path, even as she strained to remain at the other woman’s side. Where did this journey lead? How would it end? Questions she had kept locked away, but never voiced._

_No. She knew when it happened. It began with those children, yes, but that was not when the fabric gave way. It was on the eve of the first true conflict. Before the sparks of war became a wildfire Rhea could not control._

_When a Knight of Seiros ran from his duty, and another Knight looked away._

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the stables of Garreg Mach, a woman found herself alone. The hour had grown late, and the night air held a cloying chill. It seeped into bone, stealing breath and will both. So it was that the grounds were devoid of life, leaving only Shamir to stir among the shadows. She had sequestered herself above the stable roof, arms crossed and head cast toward the moon.

Below, the grumbling huff of horses broke the quiet. They stamped and milled, hooves clanging in hollow echoes as they expressed their discontent. It would seem Cyril had yet to tend to them. The boy was likely lost to the various tasks Rhea had heaped upon his shoulders. A busy child, with a devotion so vast it eclipsed everything else. Perhaps it was just as well. She did not desire company at this time; not when the events of the day still lingered. Shamir stared at the rolling clouds along the dark horizon.

A fog was approaching, thick and encompassing. A fine companion to the miserable chill. She exhaled in a burst, and the mist of her breath flooded the air. This mountain... This place and its people; she wondered whether it would ever become familiar. Even after years of service it still felt alien. _She_ felt alien. Her hand drifted down to the dagger at her belt. The touch of cold metal settled her thoughts. It would soon be time, Shamir knew. The girl and her forces were sure to storm the monastery en-masse. The Empire had always been proactive in its anger, and the newly crowned Emperor had scorn in spades. A familiar notion, but this time…

Shamir stilled, attention snared by the sound of footsteps. Reflexively she flattened her body, keeping her form molded to the surrounding dark. A figure, garbed in a thick cloak, strode towards the stable. Their gait was purposeful, and each step spoke of an underlying need for haste. Shamir’s eyes caught on the glint of armor seen beneath cloth. She waited for the man — an assumption based on build and height — to settle under the stable roof. The click of a gate latch sliced through the night. Soon, the steady rhythm of hooves came after. The man reappeared, leading a hardy appaloosa behind him. Shamir recognized the mare immediately. She pursed her lips tight, hand falling from the dagger at her waist. Her posture straightened, legs hanging off the roof idly.

“Longing for a midnight ride, Alois?”

The man visibly startled, hood falling back from his head. He turned to face her slowly. The sheen of sweat along his brow did not go unnoticed.

“Shamir!” The Knight smiled, but it was uncharacteristically thin. His eyes darted erratically, an animal-like focus that strayed from the gate to her and back again. He looked like a mouse under a cat’s paw. “I didn’t think anyone was still out and about. What with the weather taking a foul turn and all...”

“These brisk nights remind me of home.” Shamir leaned back, gaze straying deceptively to the clouds. She heard Alois shuffle in place, a sign of scattered nerves. The man was not as practiced in subterfuge as she, and hardly a skilled liar. He was earnest to a fault. “I did not think you were one for cold weather. You complain about it often enough.”

“Yes...well—” Alois attempted an amiable chuckle. It tore from his chest in a high pitched rasp. He cleared his throat, and Shamir deigned to glance back at him. The horse at his side anxiously tapped its hooves. Alois tugged the reigns, the motion widening the gap in his cloak. “Ahem. I just needed to clear my head a little. The day _has_ been rather taxing.”

Shamir looked at him steadily. Keen eyes drifted to the revealed space, catching on leather and cord. Wrapped around his torso was a pack of significant size. Supplies, no doubt, for his impromptu journey. The man swallowed hard, the apple of his throat bobbing like a pendulum. Shamir lifted her head, fingers tracing along the smooth pommel of a dagger.

“You seem oddly well-equipped for a mere jaunt. Care to explain?”

Alois’ face fell, smile wiped clean. His lips thinned and the curved line of his mustache bristled.

“Ah, that.” He paused; one hand flying up to ruffle through his hair. The other casually drifted beneath his cloak. Shamir noted both movements easily. Misdirection was a language she spoke fluently. Still, she let him keep the pretense. For now. “It’s good that you ask. I was actually given a task by Lady Rhea. A mission of utmost importance!”

“Is that right?” Shamir glanced away. Her dagger pulled from its sheath, metal shining in the dark. The whisper of steel garnered the man’s attention. She turned the blade in her hands.

“Yes. A, um, scouting mission!” A miserable lie; one made with a warbling voice and thin conviction. Alois smiled again, but it was crisp like the edge of a knife. For a moment, Shamir entertained the thought of meeting that knife with her own. It was a fanciful notion; one that caused her to balance the dagger along her index. All the while, a spooked appaloosa bayed with malcontent. Alois attempted to hush the animal by patting its nose. Blue eyes never strayed from her coiled figure, however. _עכבר לעולם לא יסיט את מבטו מחתול__._

Shamir nearly scoffed in amusement, but retained her composure. Alois would likely misconstrue it for something malicious. The man tended to react hastily when threatened. She let the flat of her blade rest within her palm.

“I see. So she sent you to search for our wayward students.”

Alois tensed, unblinking. He took a quick breath before clearing his throat. Shamir stared at him patiently.

“Pardon?” He asked quickly. She eyed his cloak and pack with weighted significance.

“Rhea. She sent you on a mission to find the missing Eagles.” Shamir waved her free hand in the direction of Garreg Mach’s gate. Her dagger was sheathed with the other; the weapon becoming an inert piece of steel once more. “To convince them to return and renounce the Empire’s treachery. Isn’t that what you just told me?”

“I...,” Alois began. His stare brightened with understanding. The harsh line of his shoulders gentled with palpable relief. “That’s correct. I _did _tell you that.”

“Then you should be on your way.” Shamir looked up into the sky. The moon was nearing its zenith. “Before Cyril remembers his chores and comes to check on the horses.”

“Y-Yes. Of course,” The man breathed out in huff, great chest falling with the weight of his apprehension. Sweat dripped down his nose, soaking into a skewed mustache. He swiped the perspiration away. Alois let his arm drop from the folds of his cloak. Whatever weapon he had prepared was now rendered unnecessary. It would not come to blood between them. Shamir watched him mount with an air of detachment, deciding not to comment when his foot slipped from the stirrup. Finally, the man settled into his saddle. His eyes flicked up to meet hers; searching. Questioning.

“...You could come with me,” Alois ventured tentatively. He straightened, chin rising with his returned confidence. The ensuing smile he offered was genuine. “They wouldn’t turn you away, least of all her.”

“Hm.” Shamir drew her legs up, knees pressed to her chest. “Tell me something, Alois. Do you consider yourself a loyal man?”

“I do. I always have.” The Knight glanced away. His hands tightened upon the reins. The horse beneath him pranced in place, a mirror of the rider’s unsettled mind. Animals were intuitive in that way.

_הרבה יותר מאנשים_ _._

Shamir nodded faintly. She acknowledged the statement for what it was; a weak platitude. He was not quite comfortable with his decision, even as he barreled forward with little regard to consequence. She could sympathize. As if sensing her vague disapproval, Alois took a measured breath.

“Which is why I must do this.” His line of sight changed, focusing somewhere past the monastery gates — up and over the mountains where an army sharpened its fangs. “Might be that I’m making a terrible mistake. Might be that I’m not. That’s not for me to say.”

The man blinked up at her then. His gaze softened into a wordless plea.

“You know this isn’t right. They’re just kids, Shamir. Even Byleth, and I can’t bear the thought of Jeralt’s blood on my hands.”

“Still concerned with ghosts, Alois?”

His mouth pulled into a melancholic slant.

“Ha! What can I say? I’m a pretty predictable fellow.”

Shamir leaned her head atop her knees. She closed her eyes, and a vision of the past appeared within her mind’s eye. _Tall and broad, with a smile that could barely be seen. A face cast in shadow, but painfully nostalgic. Work-rough hands scarred in the pursuit for coin. _Then the image changed, as it had been prone to doing these last few years. Dark hair lightened to the color of wheat, and the smile widened until it became a toothy grin. Ripples of life within a once still pond. The metamorphosis of emotion.

_“I’ve been a little afraid since then.”_

Shamir sighed, breath misting across her knuckles.

“Some loyalties are worth more than others,” she said at last. Alois bobbed his head, somber look deepening. “All the same, I have to decline.”

“I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I understand.” The man hesitated, frown betraying his reluctance. “I think... Byleth will too.”

“I’m not asking for you to make excuses for me, Alois.” Shamir raised her head again. She stared down at him evenly. “Tell her what you will. All of them.”

“Then I hope you will not mind if I take liberty in the telling.” The former Knight of Seiros chuckled sadly. With a parting bow, he kicked his heels and spurred his mount onward. Shamir watched him depart, eyes lidded and jaw set. Before he disappeared around the bend she called out to him.

“Alois.”

The man stilled, head turned slightly. Shamir raised two fingers and used them to trace a shape in the air. The Dagdan sign for luck, but she wouldn’t reveal as such. She was never much one for the Old Father and His Children. The Gods were incomprehensible and shrouded in mystery. Yet perhaps He would deign to offer His help just this once.

“Pray to your Goddess that we do not meet again.” Shamir lowered her hand and settled back along her perch, as if nothing had disturbed her in the first. She did not hear Alois respond, but imagined the man waving farewell. He was prone to such sentiment. Soon the sound of horse and rider faded into the night.

Shamir relaxed into shadow, pretending not to hear as a boy came to feed the remaining beasts. She remained there in silence. Soon, the boy came to a belated realization and skittered back into the cold. It did not take long for the monastery bell to ring with alarmed fervor, nor for the grounds to be aflutter with rage and the sting of yet another betrayal. And still, Shamir remained; thoughts whirling between past and present.

The next morning, when Rhea’s reignited fury had eventually cooled into sharp displeasure, Shamir was interrogated in full. Kneeling before her employer, she revealed what little she knew. It was not a deception by traditional means. Alois was a known devout of the Church, and a veteran Knight of Seiros besides. Who could have anticipated this treachery? What would bring Shamir to question his intentions when his story was sound?

“He told me you sent him to scout for the children. I did not think him capable of lying so boldly,” she had explained without pause. Rhea was far from amused. The woman’s hands curled upon her gilded throne, green eyes sparking with hidden shards of ice. Rhea's anger was expected. Catherine’s gutted expression was not.

“That old fool will follow Jeralt’s corpse into the grave!” The former noble hissed. Her eyes flashed, but it was not the cold anger Rhea displayed. It was wounded and dismayed; like a child being given a harsh truth. Or in this instance, a dreaded outcome she had feared but dared not give breath to. “Trailing after that... that _snake_ and her_ pet_. I’ll drag Alois back and beat him until he sees reason!”

“Calm yourself, Catherine.” Rhea’s words were hard; severe as the venom in her gaze. The woman turned back to Shamir. Something calculated lay behind that stare; strange and alien as Shamir so often felt. It was more than a simple wrath of mortal means, and for once the archer found herself glancing away. “What’s done is done. Alois has made his choice. Let him rot in it.”

Catherine bowed, but her lips remained pursed with malice. Her eyes burned with questions and vengeance both. Her partner did not look kindly upon dereliction of duty. And when that duty was to her Goddess, the resulting ire paled in comparison to everything else. Shamir observed her quietly. She felt nothing of significance for Rhea’s upset, but Catherine—

Shamir blinked, pulling the thought up from the root before it could sink deep. All the while, she pondered the night before. Catherine would not understand her decision. To everyone else, her actions would seem mad at worst, and duplicitous at best. But loyalty was odd in that way. In theory, hers was bought through coin rather than action; as it had been since the day she took up the mercenary mantle.

Nonetheless, when the time finally came she could not sever the irrational parts of her that cared for those children. Brash, arrogant, timid, and everything in between. _The girl who reminded her too much of herself, and the teacher who was too much like him. _It was the foolhardy sentiment of a jaded warrior, seeing ghosts instead of living people. Shamir was quite aware of that reality. But blood reigned over peace, as it always had.

Shamir took her place at Catherine’s side. Her partner did not stir, lost between pained spite and indignant fury. The archer toyed with the possibility of reaching out to her, perhaps a reassuring touch to calm the other woman. Her hands flexed, the leather of her gloves creaking. Catherine’s mouth twisted into a snarl, and she stalked away. The woman vanished out the chamber doors; a caged lion scenting blood. Shamir’s hand fell. She heard Rhea begin to speak, but the words flit through her ears without comprehension.

In the end, Shamir knew how this would end. Truthfully, she had always known. Yet this was her chosen path. Catherine was here, and so she would remain. A reason or an excuse; it hardly mattered. Somewhere, she knew, the Old Father and His brood laughed at her simplicity. History was a thing of cycles, and Shamir was far from a revolutionary. _Flotsam adrift at sea_, Solomon teased once. She could not say for certain he was wrong. Catherine had expressed similar sentiments in their time together. Yet a vow had been made, and it served as the only guidance she had.

_Until their paths diverged. Wasn’t that what she had promised?_

Shamir remained in place; silent as ever. She had grown accustomed to waiting. So that was what she would do. There was no need for haste; not as of yet. Whether this path would end in misery or triumph was beyond her ken. Rhea or Edelgard. Empire or Church. The point was moot either way. The fate of Fόdlan was not for her to think on. Only Catherine, and the promise she had made.

_Passive as a river._

_But rivers were winding things of bends and breaks; capable of rapids and placidity both. Only time would tell what shape hers would take._

  
  


**Next : Chapter 1 - Gather and Ignite**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once upon a time there was a cat who slept peacefully in a garden. The garden was bountiful and green, with plenty for the cat to be in awe of. But one day the cat grew curious about what was outside this garden. So the cat wandered out the gate, and was surprised by the barren land it saw. The cat opened her mouth and said, "Where the heck are all the Cathmir fics!?"
> 
> Yeah. Seriously guys, why aren't more people writing for this pair?? It's pretty canon too (for real, they get married and there's nothing you can tell me otherwise) I'm aghast. So much that I'm taking a break from my regularly scheduled Edeleth to rectify this (Don't worry I got a fic planned for them after this one). Anyway, if you didn't read through the tags let this be your official announcement that I'm blatantly ignoring canon. I love El and CF, but I hate the fact Catherine dies horribly. So I'm correcting that hogwash and giving these ladies a happy ending (no one else who died tho, sry) I AM surprised no one ever commented on me refusing to mention Shamir in TWtD at all (psst it was for this reason). I wanted to explore the possibility of a 'recruited character' remaining with their original faction due to conflicting loyalty. I did say I couldn't separate them~  
Oh, and we're going to explore the political landscape of Faerghus in the aftermath of CF with headcanons firing on all cylinders for Dagda and multiple posthumous characters. But that's just the icing on the Cathmir cake so don't worry about that too much (cough)
> 
> As for this chapter, you've probably noticed the incomprehensible text every now and then. So the whole deal with Dagda is sort of weird, because Dagda (the god) is part of the Celtic pantheon which would suggest Brigid to be an offshoot of that country, but that's not mentioned in canon so who knows. Also Shamir's name is VERY much not Irish. So I've decided to use Hebrew as the language/naming convention for the Dagdan people, while inserting the Celtic mythos I didn't use in Brigid. Hopefully it turns out okay, but that's for you guys to decide! Just slap the phrases into google translate as you like.  
I also gave Shamir's old partner a name; Solomon. For obvious reasons lol. 
> 
> General Disclaimer: I do not consider myself a professional by any means. Typos and grammar weirdness will likely be present until I find them upon future proofreading. Please keep in mind that Character portrayal is subject to my own interpretations alongside unreliable narrator. Views expressed by the characters in question are not necessarily my own. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but excessively rude comments will be deleted ( I kinda find them funny tbh, but I know people don't like to see it) If you have any genuine gripes, please send them to my email located on my profile page. I will try to explain/respond as promptly as possible! Updates for this fanfic are still to be decided, but due to work and approaching holidays it will likely follow a bi-weekly schedule. Thank you for your readership and I hope to hear any thoughts <3  
\- AdraCat


	2. Gather and Ignite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past and present intertwine as a woman decides how to go forward.  
The beginning and the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the wait! Here ya go~
> 
> barbican^ - outer defensive structure (often a tower plus wall) that is part of a castle's first line of defense.

This was the point of no return.

Shamir watched from the shadows as Rhea— _Seiros_ disappeared in a flash of light. In her place, a ghastly beast lifted its head to the sky. It flapped its great wings before taking flight. The creature soared above them, scales shimmering in the moon light. Grand as it was deadly. Terrifying as it was alien. Then it landed in the castle courtyard, waiting for its unwitting prey to arrive.

Her most loyal of Knights stood upon the ramparts. Cyril, boy no longer, straightened his stance. He clutched his axe tight, before turning on his heel. He wore his resolve like a mask, uncertainty scoured into nothing. The years had changed him into a man, but one who only knew one reality. That of Rhea’s, and only hers alone. He could not see past the world she created for him. _הבן אינו יכול להודות באשמת אמו_. Shamir despaired for him privately — for the boy she knew, and the instrument he had been molded into being. She turned her eyes to the other person standing over the balcony.

Catherine. The woman’s face was downcast, head bowed to her chest. The wind tossed her hair; a howling gust which carried a draconic roar. The thoughts she held were a mystery, as they so often were. Yet the tremble of her hands could not be ignored. The task she had been granted did not sit well, Shamir knew that much. Yet the woman would not dare cast her duty aside. No deed was too great. No atrocity too horrible. Her loyalty was a blind one, or so Catherine portrayed. But Shamir wondered if that was true. If so... why did she continue to struggle? 

No. She was not a child being told a sweet lie. Neither was she innocent and naive. That much had been made clear.

Catherine breathed deeply, chest rising with her head. She turned her eyes to Shamir. The blue of her iris was strangely dark. A midnight hue that devoured the light around it. She smiled thinly; resigned and worn. Shamir only looked back at her. What could she say? What did she have to offer?

_Forget the war. Cast aside Rhea. Follow me._

She opened her mouth, tempted to let the words roll off her tongue. Yet they lingered, unwilling to be voiced. Because the truth was simple. Even if she asked the woman, pleaded for her to follow; Catherine would not listen. Her gaze had always been focused on one person alone. The path she followed would always be tied to Rhea. So Shamir kept her silence, knowing it was futile.

Catherine did not appear to notice her struggle. She walked up to her, exhaling deeply.

“We should get moving. Before the Empire realizes what’s happening.” The woman attempted a weak chuckle. It was a strained sound, echoing harshly against walls of stone. Shamir stared at her for a moment. She took in Catherine’s features. The sharp line of her jaw. The wind-swept mop of her hair. Eyes clear as rain-water. She burned them into her mind, soaked in each detail to keep within. Long after the flesh had withered, this memory would remain.

She had not been able to do this for Solomon. Death had been a vague concept then. But time was cruel and waited for no one. Now, after years of eroded memory, his features were lost. Nothing left of the man he had been, save for the scantest detail. Even in her dreams, his face was covered in shadow. Catherine would not suffer that fate. Shamir would remember her. Every proud, infuriating bit. She leaned up, fingers tracing a line down the woman’s jaw. Catherine stilled, eyes widening.

“Shamir…?”

The skin below her touch was soft; warm with blood and the anticipation of battle. Shamir imagined the dark expanse of Catherine’s flesh pale and bloodied. The heat under her fingers leaking out between the knuckles. She took a sharp breath, unable to bear it. Shamir retreated, hand falling away. Catherine’s eyes followed her in confusion.

“Shamir,” The woman repeated, voice but a whisper. “Why–”

“I can’t.”

A heavy pause followed. Shamir turned her back, not wishing to see her partner’s face. She heard Catherine step forward.

“What do you mean by that?” The Knight demanded.

“It just means I can’t.” Shamir looked out over the city. Candlelight glittered from every home, the people having just retired from their work. Most had boarded their doors, fearing the Empire’s attack. They were oblivious to the danger that lay within their very walls; a careless beast with fire and fang to match.

The Church would not be able to return from this. None of them would. The people of Fhirdiad would not forget either.

“If you’re concerned for the city...,” Catherine said, appearing to notice where her thoughts lay. The woman made a noise of frustration. “I am as well. But this is the only way. Lady Rhea would not have ordered this otherwise.”

“Seiros,” Shamir corrected. She turned her attention to the creature in question. It spread its wings, webbed membranes flexing. The slick sheen of fangs sent a skitter of fear down her neck. It was unnervingly _other_ and far beyond anything she had known. More troubling was the truth of its existence. A woman who could take the form of a monster, or a monster wearing the skin of a woman?

“I can’t do as she asks.” Shamir steeled herself before turning to face Catherine. “You may follow Seiros as you please, but I will not.”

Suddenly, the other woman’s features changed. Anger slanted her brow, and painted her face in vivid hues.

“You’re abandoning us?” Catherine’s voice was the calm before the storm; low and terrible. Then it rose and cracked like thunder. “You can’t just leave! Not when we are so close!”

“Close to what?” Shamir asked frankly. She held Catherine’s infuriated gaze. “To burning a city to the ground? To dying like animals in a forest fire?”

Catherine flinched, but mercy was far from Shamir’s mind. She would not relent.

“The Empire may have its spoils. It makes little difference to me. This war is already over.” Shamir looked up into Catherine’s eyes. Her hand fell, resting upon a dagger. The other woman stared at her quietly. Then she laughed, a quick and bitter rasp that ripped from her chest.

“So this is how it ends...I should have known.” Catherine held a hand over her eyes. “The calm and unaffected Shamir. Too distant to care about the world around you. Too apathetic to wonder about the people you leave behind.”

The words stung, more-so for the venom in her inflection. Shamir schooled her features into practiced neutrality. That only served to anger Catherine further. The Knight scoffed, teeth bared with a feral snarl. She twisted on her heel.

“Go on then. Leave.” She unsheathed her relic, crimson sparks racing down its length. “Before I cut you down with the rest of those heathens.”

“Catherine.” Despite herself, Shamir called out to the woman. Catherine did not acknowledge her, but the slightest tilt of her head revealed she was listening.

“The world won’t forgive you for this.” It was not quite a plea, but it was close. Shamir swallowed hard, composure fracturing slightly. “The Church will not be forgiven. Neither will Rhea. Do you understand that?”

“It doesn’t matter. None of it does. The one absolute truth is Lady Rhea’s Will.” Catherine’s response was swift. It was a familiar sentiment, one she uttered like a prayer. And just as quickly, Shamir felt her heart break.

“Then this is goodbye, Catherine.”

She started walking away, each step bringing with it a lance of remorse. A knot of grief sat heavy in her throat. It was the expected outcome. Catherine’s life was not her own. It belonged to another, no matter the name or form the woman took. Shamir had known that since the moment they met. Devastation still curdled in her veins, burning with everlasting regret. It was the height of hypocrisy, she knew. Shamir’s life wasn’t truly her own either.

It was the reason she could not stay. _הוא אמר לי לחיות. וכך אני חייב_. That did not make the decision easier. It had been simpler before. When Catherine was just a sword among many. But easy laughter and warm smiles had given that sword life. Their lives had been tied together; first by Rhea, then each other. Now they were severed by all.

_I cannot __go with you__. I owe it to him._ Shamir clenched her dagger tight. The cold metal burned in her grip. _Nor can I watch you fall. Forgive me, Catherine._

As Shamir fled into the night, she thought she could feel the heat of Catherine’s stare. Yet perhaps it was only the fire of a dragon, consuming the city whole.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_The fall of Garreg Mach had been inevitable. The Church was a formidable force, but their number could not stand against the might of an Empire. Within a mere day’s time, the Imperial soldiers forced the Archbishop from her seat;_ _effortlessly purging the hollowed grounds of Knight and clergy both. Savage and unrelenting was their assault. Merciless was their Emperor, who bloodied a place of peace. Or so the story went._

_ The truth was far more complicated. Shamir recalled the order Rhea gave, just before the Empire arrived. The woman was incensed, but there had not been a shred of uncertainty upon her face. She was confident the Church would prevail. It was evident in every word Rhea spoke._

_ ‘Fight with everything you have, but retreat should you need.’_

_ The woman’s gaze was flinty, burning with an enmity so vast it scorched everything in its wake._

_ ‘I will deal with those that remain.’_

_ It was a promise made to herself as well as the Knights present. So great was her confidence. So sure was her purpose. _ **_יהירות או אמונה_ **_**?** Shamir wondered if it was that very certainty that led to what happened next. The Empire arrived in a wave of black steel. They did not bear siege weapons; there wasn’t any need. Garreg Mach was a haven for the faithful, and an institution of learning. In a continent united under a singular Goddess, what reason would there be for capturing such a place? The Archbishop had been content in her rule. This much was clear._

_ With relative ease, the Imperial soldiers broke through the gates. The Emperor appeared at the front, a vision of silver and red. Her features were blurred in the distance, but Shamir knew how the girl would look. A determined set to her mouth. Chin raised in defiance. Gloved hand poised along her hip with feigned nonchalance. The picture of youthful rebellion against supposed corruption. However, beneath the careful composure, would be lingering fear. A child was still a child, after all._

_ Byleth stood at her back, golden sword drawn. The woman stepped forward. Shamir watched as she took her place at the Emperor’s side. A symbolic gesture of solidarity, and a firm reminder of the choice that had been made. Suddenly, Edelgard straightened as if the weight of her actions evaporated into the air. The girl took strength from the former professor, molding it to herself like armor. Now, there would be no hint of trepidation upon her features. Only a fierce will to succeed, and the drive to make her ambitions reality. Such was the effect Byleth had upon the Emperor. Shamir had seen it first hand, and every time nostalgia would threaten to overwhelm. _ **_הדים לילדה אחרת והמורה השקט שלה_ _._**

_ But reminiscing did not help anyone. War was on the horizon, and she could not afford to wallow in memory. Still, putting such sympathies far from her mind was not an easy feat. Once the battle began in full, Shamir found herself avoiding them both. Any hint of silver or blue, sent her darting in the opposite direction. Once, she had drawn her bow; arrow nocked and waiting to strike. The Imperial soldier within her sights abruptly turned and the gleam of polished steel was revealed. Her hands stilled, recognition dawning. _

_ Alois. The man didn’t appear to notice her, too preoccupied with his own clash against a mounted Knight. He was able to tear his opponent down from the horse, axe leaving a sizable dent within plated mail. There he stood, poised to end the other man’s life. Shamir felt her fingers twitch. It would be nothing to send her arrow through his skull. He wouldn’t suffer for long. Quick and efficient. Her arms burned, aching with the deadly potential they held._

_ The former Knight brought his axe down with a vicious lunge. Blood splattered across his chest. Shamir blinked and lowered her bow. The moment was gone, ended with the life she refused to take. Alois disappeared out of view, never realizing the danger he had evaded. She swallowed past her momentary guilt. A man had died because of her. Perhaps the wrong one in the Church’s eyes. But Shamir was not a moralist, nor beholden to a foreign goddess. Her hand had been too slow. That was all. She turned her head and scanned the field. Her line of sight caught on orange and grey._

_ Gilbert stared at her from across the field lips pursed into a tight frown. She looked back at him for a long moment. Had he noticed her reticence? Would he accuse her of treason? It was hard to say. The man was fiercely devoted to the Church. More than any of them. Gilbert eventually averted his gaze, though his expression remained impassive. Shamir relaxed her stance. He would not approach her. At least, for now. Whatever his thoughts, they would be reserved for after the battle._

_ The conflict itself was a quick and vicious affair. The Empire’s forces gave no quarter, and soon the Church soldiers were pushed deep into the monastery. Shamir led the retreat, arrows striking only those who dared to pursue. Most were mere infantry without a commander to guide them. The bulk of the Imperial army was busy carving a bloody path straight to Rhea. Edelgard was at the head of the horde, silver crown like a beacon amid the chaotic pulse of man and beast. The flash of a golden whip trailed at her back; Byleth, ever stalking amid the Emperor’s shadow. Following in their steps, was the remaining Black Eagles. Young. Idealistic. The world had yet to muddy their resolve or complicate their loyalties. She envied them and hated herself for that envy._

_ Shamir forced her gaze away. Idly, as if compelled by those very thoughts, her eyes landed upon Catherine. The woman was still fighting hard, Thunderbrand arched above her head with grisly promise. Yet her movements were flagging, seemingly weighted with exhaustion. Even she could not continue this forever. Suddenly, Catherine lost her footing. Her knees buckled into the dirt. A nearby mage attempted to take advantage of this slip. The man’s hands ignited with fire, only for the flames to sputter into nothing as an arrow ripped through his throat. Shamir lowered her bow. Catherine looked stunned for a moment, blue eyes searching. Then the woman relaxed as Shamir flit to her side._

_ “Sloppy of me.” Catherine smiled thinly. She hobbled to her feet, digging her blade into the ground. “Thanks for the assist.”_

_ “We need to move.” Shamir cast a look across the field, ignoring the other woman. Trading pleasantries was a quick way to the grave. “Seteth and Gilbert have already quit the field. We should find them and regroup.”_

_ “What?” Catherine straightened, mouth pulling into a scowl. “I can still fight. Lady Rhea–”_

_ “Gave us an order.” Shamir cut in. “Or do you not trust the Archbishop’s command?”_

_ Catherine averted her gaze. A plated hand flexed upon the grip of her relic. It was an underhanded tactic, to appeal to the woman’s sense of duty. But the Empire would not relent, and they would likely perish trying to reach Rhea. Shamir had no intention of that happening. She would drag her partner away from the monastery grounds if it proved necessary. Fortunately, Catherine nodded in agreement; if with great reluctance._

_ “Fine.” She inhaled deeply, settling Thunderbrand along her shoulder. “I’ll just have faith in the Goddess’s plan. It’s what Lady Rhea would want.”_

_** And what if abiding that plan meant the Archbishop’s death?** Shamir bit her tongue, deciding not to comment. It was a sharp retort unworthy of airing. Her own muddled opinions on divinity were not applicable here. Catherine, least of all, would not appreciate them. So she only turned her back, letting the other woman trail at her heel._

_ Shamir hoped, for Catherine’s sake, that Rhea knew what she was doing._

_ It was not difficult to find the Knights who had fled. They had hidden themselves among dense trees, beneath Garreg Mach’s southern slope. The Church soldiers, most wounded and exhausted, barely lifted their heads at the women’s approach. Shamir spotted Gilbert deep into the clearing, issuing firm orders to a group of men. The Knights surrounding him appeared nervous and frazzled, though it was clear they took heart from their steadfast superior. They bowed low before taking their leave. Gilbert’s gaze followed them, lined features heavy with shadow._

_ “The Empire has not given chase," the man said abruptly. He turned to face them, arms crossed tight across his chest. “They seem to be concentrating on securing the monastery grounds. An oversight on the girl’s part, or merely confidence?”_

_ “It doesn’t matter. Princess will get what’s coming to her eventually,” Catherine scoffed, expression souring. Her jaw audibly clicked as she grit her teeth. “Lady Rhea has something up her sleeve. Why else would she tell us to abandon the monastery?”_

_ “The Lady has great pull, but an army cannot be defeated without men to fight it.” Gilbert exhaled slowly. “I do not claim to understand Edelgard’s intentions, but if her aim is to murder the Archbishop–”_

_ “Had that been the goal, I don’t think she would have gone for a direct assault.” Shamir leaned against a nearby tree, comforted by the scrape of bark along cloth. Gilbert’s attention shifted to her. He stared at her silently for a time, an unknown emotion flickering behind weathered slate. She dared not look away. Whatever accusations lay in his heart, Shamir would not confirm them._

_ “...Maybe so.” Gilbert raised his head, focusing on the monastery walls. “An assassination would have been wiser. Yet she has decided against that. What would you say is her goal?”_

_ “Who cares?” Catherine huffed. “Her actions don’t require an explanation. Only retribution.”_

_ Gilbert frowned. The man’s lips parted, but whatever words he had prepared were lost. A deafening screech echoed across the forest. The sound was piercing and inhuman, shaking the air around them. Despite herself, a shiver crept along Shamir’s spine. Then, before they could gather their wits, the earth shook violently. Another sound came from the walls of Garreg Mach; an inorganic roar akin to stone crashing against glass. The ground lurched once more, accompanied by a strange rhythmic vibration. Shamir braced herself against the tree to her back. Her heart raced, thumping in time to that same odd rhythm._

_ “Do you feel that?” Catherine whispered at her side, voice soft and uncertain. Shamir blinked as her partner stepped close. “What is–”_

_ A large shadow stretched across the trees. It soared above their heads, eclipsing sun and sky. A thunderous shriek rippled from the mass, the weight of it reverberating down to bone. Suddenly, the dark lifted and revealed the gleam of silver scales. Shamir quickly reached for her bow. Her eyes narrowed upon the winged creature, tension rising as it opened its gaping maw. The beast emitted a frightening cacophony, light flickering upon a serpentine tongue. She drew back the string, arrow ready to pierce the opalescent hide._

_ “Stop!”_

_ Jarred from concentration, her arrow veered far from its target. It disappeared into the distance. She turned her head sharply. Seteth ran in front of her, arms outstretched. The man’s face was covered in sweat, features pale. _

_ “Sheathe your weapons. All of you!” Seteth insisted. Shamir took in his appearance, noting the blood-soaked collar and labored breathing. The man’s hand lingered around his ribs. Flayn stood at his back, fidgeting with a roll of bandages._

_ “Are you mad?” Catherine brandished her blade to the heavens, scowling. “The Empire at our back, a dragon circling us, and you want us to lay down our arms?!”_

_ “The dragon... it isn’t what you think.” Seteth staggered closer, wincing with each step. Flayn hovered anxiously at his elbow. The girl drew back as he waved her away. His head craned to look up, peering through the wooded canopy. “Lady Rhea was gifted by the goddess. This form is a result of that gift.”_

_ “That thing is Lady Rhea?” Catherine backed away, unease mingling with incredulity. “Seteth, that’s insane.”_

_ “The Goddess’ will is oft unknowable, but Her touch is undeniable.” Gilbert murmured. The man gave a great sigh. “I always felt that the Lady was blessed, and here is the proof.”_

_ “Gilbert, surely this can’t...”_

_ “Does your faith shatter so easily?”_

_ Catherine recoiled at the harsh words. She pursed her lips, before lowering the relic._

_ “Never.” The woman eventually answered. “My devotion is absolute.”_

_ “Good.” Gilbert nodded firmly. He turned his gaze to Shamir. She avoided his eyes, choosing to stare at the stretch of sky the creature once inhabited. It had taken its leave shortly after Seteth’s intervention, flying to the north. Whether the beast was truly Rhea hardly made a difference. Powerful or not, it could not repel the conquering army which defied the Church. Garreg Mach belonged to the Empire._

_ “We should leave soon. I imagine the Emperor will not allow us to remain.” Shamir glanced over at Seteth. The man was leaning heavily upon his sister’s shoulder, blanching to an unsettling shade of white. “Preferably to a place where we can recover.”_

_ “Faerghus would be safe enough.” Gilbert offered. He folded his arms, appearing lost in thought. “The Kingdom students should still be traveling to Arianrhod. If we’re quick, we can join the caravans and ask His Majesty for sanctuary.”_

_ “And Lady Rhea?” Catherine demanded. Her uncertainty was evident, whether from the task at hand or the prior revelation Shamir could not say. Her partner wore her emotions with ease, but the reasons for them were often incomprehensible. A complicated woman with a veneer of simplicity._

_ “She will be guided by the Goddess.” The older Knight allowed himself a thin smile. It was meant as a comforting gesture, but it did not lessen the severity of his countenance. “The Lady will seek us out when it is time. Until then, we protect who we can and lead the students to safety. Do you agree, Seteth?”_

_ “Yes.” The other man shook his head as if stirring from a daze. He swallowed hard. “It would be wise to gather our strength in Arianrhod before heading to the capital. I doubt the Grand Duke will turn us away.”_

_ “The Crown will shelter us. I have faith in that much.”_

_ “It’s settled then,” Seteth affirmed. “I’ll trust in the three of you to lead the march?”_

_ “It shall be done.” Gilbert bowed, fist pressed to his heart. Catherine followed his lead. Shamir did not bother doing the same. Instead, she stared at the walls of their former home, silently watching trails of smoke drift toward the clouds. They mingled and danced, grey darkening to pitch._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Her memory stirred as Shamir watched ribbons of smoke drift from wood and stone. Orange and red painted the night sky in a vivid tapestry of color. A sight that could have been beautiful, were it not for the flames lapping greedily below. They soared and weaved a wicked dance, blackening everything in its hunger. Shamir watched from the forest silently. She should not have stayed. The Empire had surrounded the castle proper, and a familiar line of black steel slithered over the land. Once the fires were quelled, the soldiers would likely continue into the outskirts as they looked for any Church survivors.

It would be wiser to leave. Yet…

Shamir found herself scanning the city walls. It had been a simple thing, to move through the Imperial lines. Their efforts were focused on pushing deeper into the city, rather than who might leave it. She could likely make the trip again if she wished. The question was if the trouble would be worth it. Catherine was lost to her already. Dead or alive, the difference was moot. She would not willingly abandon Rhea. Shamir was aware of that perfectly well. So then why could she not tear herself away?

_Because I need to know_. She watched, biting her lip until it bled. The copper tang filled her mouth. She had left him to die as well. The circumstances were different, the players slightly changed, but her actions were the same.

_'Live'_,_ Solomon had said. He pushed her away, hands slick with blood. The look in his eyes had said everything. Behind him, the shouts of Fόdlan soldiers echoed across the trees. A dagger was pushed into her palms; __his__ favorite __and the first he had been given__. __He smiled then, through the pain and the spear in his __chest__. _

_Shamir had ran after that, chasing the sun with the wind in her ears. Then she hid along the river bed, breath held until the clop of horse and men could not be heard. Once they left, the woman arched onto the grass, cheeks wet with water and tears both. __Days later,_ _s__he found his body in a shallow grave; soil loos__ely__ throw__n and maggots eating their fill._

Would she find Catherine the same way? The life drained out of her, body broken upon the dirt? It would be agonizing. But it was more unbearable not knowing anything. Hours had passed since the city’s siege, and the Empire had not relented in their assault. It was possible Catherine was already dead, burnt to nothing, or rent in twain by gnashing axe and golden sword.

The enraged screams of Seiros filled the air. It caused the forest to tremble, tree limbs shaking under the inhuman trill. The dragon was still alive, for now. Shamir pursed her lips, eyes focused upon Fhirdiad’s southern wall. Edelgard and her forces were still preoccupied with Seiros. If she was going to make a move, it would have to be this very moment. A decision needed to be made.

Shamir bit her cheek. She already knew what her heart wanted; conflicted and inconvenient organ that it was. Catherine. Brash and troublesome Catherine. Even if the woman had already fallen, she could not leave that up to chance.

Shamir stood from her crouched position, bow in hand. Then she crept back into the burning city, mouth and nose covered. She once told the woman she would not choose Catherine over herself. It had been the truth then. But change was inevitable, and love made liars of them all.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_The journey to Arianrhod had been long and silent. Many of the Knights were still wounded, suffering the trek with stifled cries of pain. The few Bishops who survived, and stayed loyal, did their best to tend to them. Thankfully, the Empire had not begun their pursuit in earnest. The villages they passed were eager to assist, deflecting any stray Imperial scouts. But the holding pattern would soon break, Shamir was certain of that. Once Edelgard had solidified her hold over Garreg Mach, the girl would stretch her influence past the Adrestian border. Her soldiers would search ceaselessly and without mercy. If the Church wanted to survive, they would need the support of the Kingdom._

_ When they finally arrived at the Silver Maiden, it was Prince Dimitri who greeted them. The young man darted from the towering gate, a look of anticipation on his face. Gilbert stepped up to him. The distance was too far to make out what was said, but the conversation appeared far from pleasant. After a few words, the boy’s expression crumpled. His head lowered, fair hair shielding his eyes from view. Shamir saw him stalk off then, hands clenched tight. He looked painfully young at that moment. Fragile as a newborn. Gilbert stared after him but did not move to follow. Some things could not be shared, nor eased with paltry sympathy. The Prince’s pain belonged only to himself._

_ They stayed within Arianrhod’s walls for a number of days, gathering their strength. Soon, the decision was made to travel to Fhirdiad. It was the Kingdom’s seat, and with the crown Prince in their custody, it was in their best interest to transport him there. Gilbert was the most insistent on this, but Seteth quickly agreed. The man had healed well in the days since the attack and was now focused on leading the fractured Church in Rhea’s absence. He was certain the Archbishop would seek Asylum in the capital. It was an opinion that no one challenged him on. Seteth was Rhea’s right hand; her closest adviser in many ways. Of all people, he would know where she would be._

_ Shamir wondered if his confidence was merely a facade. She did not miss the slight quiver of his hands or the gaunt shadow of his cheeks. The man was troubled. Perchance more than he was willing to admit. The same could be said of Prince Dimitri. The young man avoided them pointedly, though the act was likely not malicious. On the rare occasions Shamir spotted him, Dimitri was usually sitting alone. Even his retainer was not at his side. The boy was neither training or doing anything of worth. He just brooded in solitude, staring off into the distance. Whenever Gilbert approached, he did not stir._

_ The older man took this in stride. However, Shamir could see his mounting worry. The old Knight was a man of great patience, but even he had his limits. Gilbert was clearly weary, and his will was beginning to fray. Garreg Mach’s fall and Rhea’s absence had taken its toll upon him. All of the Knights felt as such; trapped in this period of uncertainty. Adding the Prince’s turmoil to his own was tearing the man apart._

_ Shamir was not concerned with any of them; not in the least. They were allies perhaps, but she did not consider them friends. It might have been cruel of her, and some would say heartless. Shamir called it being practical. She could not be like Flayn, who worried incessantly over every person around her. It was a waste of energy. Only one person held her regard. And even then, Shamir could not break herself with concern over another. However, that did not mean she was unmoved._

_ One night, the hollow rap of knuckles upon wood caught Shamir’s attention. Catherine stood outside her quarters, leaning against the door-frame. Curiously, the other woman had a bottle in one hand. She shook it when Shamir’s gaze caught on the amber glass._

_ “Up for a nightcap?” Catherine smiled, a small thing that did not ease the tight line of her jaw. Shamir looked at her for a long moment. Then she nodded, dagger sheathed and setting aside her whetstone. Sharp eyes narrowed on the rock, a faint tinge of ire flickering within light blue. Shamir unlaced her gloves, casually dropping them upon the stone’s surface._

_ “Depends.” She pushed a hand through her hair, keeping her voice neutral. “If you brought that sour water you consider ale, I think I’ll pass.”_

_ “It’s not my fault Dagdans are so picky.” Catherine walked further into the room. The quarters they had been given were sparse, typically reserved for servants and the like. While sizable, Arianrhod was not meant to accommodate this sheer influx of people. It was only due to rank and esteem they had been granted rooms at all. Most of their men were camping in tents outside the gates. Catherine settled on the ground, hands working at the bottle’s cork._

_ “Lucky for you, I brought the good stuff.” Blue eyes flicked up to look at the dark-haired woman. All trace of anger had vanished, leaving only playful ease. The cork loosened with a pop. “Mateus Red. 1152. Good year, or so I heard.”_

_ “Hmm. And how exactly did you come by this wine?”_

_ Catherine’s smile fell. She looked down at the bottle, shoulders lifting into a light shrug._

_ “Raided the cellar. I doubt Lord Rowe will mind the Church partaking a bit.” Her grip tightened upon glass. “After all, it’s been a hell of a week.”_

_ Shamir observed her partner. The woman had dressed down, armor and outer cloak missing. Her hair was loose, forming a rumpled mane around her face. Catherine had been sleeping or attempting it. Yet here she currently was, sitting in Shamir’s room with a dusty bottle of wine. Would it be wise to question her? Should comfort be offered?_

_ “Yes. I suppose it has.” Shamir remarked eventually. A bland response; safe and neutral. Catherine seemed to think so as well. The woman blinked up at her, lips slanted down. Her expression was odd; just shy of disappointed. Then she smiled and the moment was gone._

_ “Which is why we should be drinking.” Catherine brought the bottle up to her lips. She drank deep, fingers curled tight around the neck. Shamir lifted an unimpressed brow._

_ “You had time to steal alcohol, but not cups?”_

_ Catherine let the drink fall from her mouth. Her grin widened, turning into something coy._

_ “Little details aren’t my thing. You know that.” She held out the bottle. “You’re lucky I decided to share it with you. I could have stopped by the barracks. Maybe found myself a handsome captain.”_

_ “Idle threats. We both know you’re full it.” Shamir took the wine from her. She looked down into the liquid, observing the deep crimson color. It reminded her of blood. Shamir lifted the bottle to her lips._

_ “You’re right,” Catherine admitted. The frank answer was unexpected. Shamir stared at her partner in surprise. Catherine chuckled wryly._

_ “Does that really shock you?” The blonde woman leaned back onto her palms. “I think I’m offended.”_

_ “It’s more that I’m surprised by your honesty.” Shamir leaned down, offering the wine back to its ill-gotten owner. Catherine smirked._

_ “Harsh words from such a pretty face. Now I’m definitely offended.” She took another sip, eyes never straying from Shamir’s. The archer kept her expression bland, unwilling to rise to the bait. Catherine appeared to sober then, levity fading away. “Joking aside, I’m not in the mood to drink with anyone else. Goddess knows they’d probably want to **talk**.”_

_ “Is that not what we’re doing?”_

_ “Well... yeah.” Catherine set the bottle on the floor. She wiped her mouth, catching a few red droplets. She missed one, and it trickled down her neck. Shamir followed its path before tearing her eyes away. Still, the shimmer of wine along bronzed skin remained._

_ “But not like them.” Catherine continued on. “Everyone here is desperate for information on Lady Rhea, Garreg Mach; all of it. I can’t give them the answers they want. Nothing substantial. But that doesn’t stop them from asking. With you, at least I can breathe.”_

_ “How sentimental.”_

_ “I’m serious.” Catherine rubbed the back of her neck, brow furrowed. “I can understand the curiosity. That doesn’t mean I’m in the mood to entertain it.”_

_ “Get used to it. I imagine it will only get worse when we reach Fhirdiad.”_

_ Sky blue eyes darkened. A low huff escaped the older woman._

_ “Fhirdiad. Right.” She shook her head, grimacing. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to that. But Seteth is certain Lady Rhea will be waiting for us.”_

_ “Do you believe him?” Shamir watched as her partner stilled. Catherine’s lips pursed with blatant displeasure. _

_ “Sure. He knows her better than anyone.” The woman’s response was slow and even; carefully constructed. It was atypical for her character. Shamir could not help herself from challenging Catherine’s certainty._

_ “And if he’s wrong?” She pressed. “If we arrive in Fhirdiad and Rhea is nowhere to be found?”_

_ Catherine looked away then, eyes focusing on the door. Her jaw worked, muscle leaping beneath the skin._

_ “Then we will wait, and pray to the Goddess for guidance.”_

_ It was strange, Shamir found, for one person to be so contradictory by nature. Yet Catherine was a woman dissected into multiple parts, and all were at war with each other. Over the years, Shamir had grown accustomed to it. That did not make dealing with Catherine any easier. At this moment, the woman’s words were calm and content. Staid by design._

_ Her body language spoke of something more. She looked like an animal with its back to the wall; cornered by something it did not quite understand. It was clear her words were not her own, merely a repetition of another’s assurance. Seteth. Rhea. The Church. Perhaps all of them. The problem was that Catherine didn’t understand it either. It was why the woman was so difficult to read. She was an inherent liar who believed every word she said. _

_ Catherine’s hand wrapped around the wine. She lifted it to her lips once more._

_ “Forget it. I came here to drink, not to think about pointless what-ifs.”_

_ Shamir turned her gaze to the whetstone. A heavy reminder of the path she discarded. Idly, her fingers curled around the pommel of her dagger. All the while Catherine swallowed her fill, stare focused on the ceiling._

_ Neither spoke again that night._

* * *

  
  


_In the end, Seteth’s confidence was rewarded with naught._

_ Their arrival in Fhirdiad was heralded by many; the Grand Duke and countless nobles among them. But Rhea’s absence was keenly felt, and the Knights visibly wilted. Rufus Blaiddyd had been accommodating enough, suitably aghast by the actions of the Empire. Shamir found herself surprised by the disparity between him and his nephew. He was plain looking, thin-limbed with a soft gut. While both were fair, the Duke’ eyes were beady and the color of a midnight sky. There was a cunning to them, alluding to a sly nature. _ ** _שועל לבוש עור כבש_ _. _**

_ Rufus had been eager to profess his allegiance, as well as thank them for protecting his nephew. The man had placed a companionable hand upon Dimitri’s shoulder as he spoke. For Dimitri’s part, he had looked uncomfortable with the sudden affection. It was evident that the two were not close, but their family dynamics were not something Shamir would trouble herself over._

_ When Seteth questioned the man as to Rhea’s whereabouts, the only response he received was a look of surprise. Then it shifted into uneasy confusion. The Grand Duke knew nothing; that much was made clear. Seteth’s face fell, the hope he held shattering into pieces. And with it, the remaining Knights as well. Their blooming anticipation soured into disappointment. As the days passed, a collective unease stole over them. Cyril was the most affected. The boy had made himself scarce since Garreg Mach. Once, he would have dogged Shamir’s every step, eager to learn and serve. Now he brooded silently in the shadows, only taking vague interest when addressed. _

_ Catherine was much the same. She had become quiet and morose; her usual fire dampened. The woman’s love for Rhea was disparate from Cyril’s. His was a childish adoration. Shamir was certain Catherine held the Archbishop in a deeper regard. While her partner might have denied it, the devotion she bore was composed of more than a soldier’s respect. It was a galling thought, in truth. Though not simply because of base envy. Perhaps it was because Catherine’s fate was not hers to command. Neither was it the woman herself. Only Rhea could decide what would happen next._

_ It was for that reason, Shamir found herself hoping the Archbishop would never return. Should that happen, the Church would collapse and Fόdlan would continue its spin into the unknown. All things which did not affect her. In that future, at least Catherine would be free. But the world had little tolerance for selfish whims. A month after the tumult began, massive wings darkened the horizon. The wind howled a mournful song, whistling past scales of silver. A thunderous roar shook the air; heralding a beast’s unmistakable presence._

_ Rhea, glorious and horrifying, had finally arrived._

_ The Knights of Seiros collectively stirred, breaking from their morning rituals. They ran to the courtyard, standing beneath the creature’s shadow. Shamir watched, frozen and unnerved, as a burning flash of light consumed the dragon. It’s profile shifted unmistakably into that of a mortal woman. An impossible feat made reality. Yet despite the awe-inspiring change, Rhea did not arrive with unaffected grace._

_ The Archbishop collapsed into a heap, pale and shivering upon the ground. Her face was covered by the long tangle of green locks. Her shoulders heaved, jerking erratically. Then she slowly lifted her head. Rhea’s face was flushed, trails of moisture marring her features. It took Shamir a moment to realize the woman was crying. Suddenly, Seteth flew to Rhea’s side. The man unraveled his cloak, quickly tossing it around her shivering form. He looked pained as he gathered the woman up into his arms. Flayn trailed behind him, panic widening her eyes._

_ Seteth said something under his breath, lips forming words Shamir could not define. Rhea didn’t appear to hear him. She just shook her head, and buried her face into the cloak. A sharp cry tore from her throat, piercing and rasped. It was a startling moment of vulnerability. The woman had always been the very essence of composure. If she despaired, it was never in the presence of her loyal Knights. Even laughter was not something she willingly expressed. Now, she was laid bare before them. Shamir almost pitied her._

_ She turned her head, observing the others. Gilbert’s gaze was politely averted, looking off into the distance. Cyril stood at the man’s side, brimming with relief and confusion in equal measure. It was clear the boy wanted to approach the Archbishop but kept himself from doing so. Their reaction was not unexpected, and neither shocked Shamir in the slightest. She looked away, searching for her partner amid the crowd of Knights._

_ Catherine was standing far from their position. The woman was glaring at the ground, lips forming a tight line. At first, Shamir thought the emotion coloring her features was rage. Yet that did not fit the nervous crossing of her arms. Rather than anger, she seemed discomfited; as if unsettled by Rhea’s outpouring emotions. It was strange, especially for someone so committed to the woman in question._

_ For the first time, Shamir thought about the nature of Catherine’s loyalty. It was a train of thought she refused to voice. Still, in her most private moments, she could not help but wonder._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The flames were a great and terrible thing, but they were not as dangerous as the smoke. It clogged the air with its presence, choking breath from lung. Shamir’s eyes watered, and she grit her teeth against the bite of stray embers. It was proving more of a daunting affair than she had thought. Catherine had yet to be found; each passing second a grain of sand trickling against the odds. Still, she forged on.

Chaos reigned around her. She saw homes and shops charred to their foundations. She tripped over bodies of every size and allegiance; some scored by blade, others by fire. And more still, the blood which marked the ground as evenly as ash. This was a world of agony; one forged by Rhea’s spite and Catherine’s ignorance.

_No_, Shamir admitted. _Not ignorance._

This was the work of many, not just the woman who gave the order. Each Knight who fought at Rhea’s side was responsible. It was not by the Archbishop’s hand that the city was set aflame. Her words, but not her deed. This was Catherine’s doing. Shamir should not have considered saving such a person. She should have left, putting these horrific events far from her mind. And a part of her agreed.

Yet a larger part, one made of quiet talks in the night and a past traded and shared, demanded her obedience. It kept her going, through crumbled stone and barricades of flame. It urged her on, treading along spattered streets and up the courtyard steps. She heard another terrible roar, close enough to reverberate through her ribs. Shamir stopped, bowing her head. Sweat cascaded down her face, and poured into her eyes. She blinked them away, ignoring the harsh sting.

The smoke was thick enough to obscure vision. It soared into the sky, blotting out the stars. Shamir took a deep breath through her hands, trying to calm her scattered thoughts. The heat was affecting her, clouding her mind and blurring her sight. If she did not find Catherine soon, she too would be lost within the flames. Desperation clawed up her throat. It was an unwilling reaction that stole upon her without warning. Shamir rubbed her eyes, salt and cinder mingling with her mounting frustration.

She turned her back, hoping to make her way back whence she came. The hollow clang of steel caught her attention. She froze, trying to focus on the noise. The crackle of embers greeted her. She held her breath, not daring to breath. Then it came again — a sound akin to metal scraping rock. Shamir darted towards it, heart fluttering. As she walked along the western barbican’s wall, the noise grew in strength. She padded through charred stretch of cobble, working her way slowly across.

Then Shamir saw it; a wicked gleam of steel through the molten haze. The metallic rasp droned in her ears, accompanied by movement. She narrowed her eyes, trying to focus between the plumes of smoke. A soldier was dragging their body across the ground. Their shape was indistinct; covered in plate and dusted by ash. Blood seeped from their body, trailing a path of crimson as they crawled across earth and stone. A pained groan came from their lips before the battered form stilled.

The voice was known to her, husked though it was. Shamir ran to the figure, pulse rushing in her ears. She bent to the ground and clutched at plated shoulders. Then she turned the person over, revealing their face to the night. It was Catherine. Wounded and on the cusp of death, but _her_ just the same. The woman was unaware of her presence. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was unnervingly faint. The blood underneath Catherine continued to pool, dripping from a large gash in her leg and side. She needed to be treated. Fast. In lieu of a proper tourniquet, Shamir flung off her jacket and tied the cloth tight around her partner's leg.

She slung her arm around the other woman, holding her waist tight. Catherine had a muscular frame by nature, but the armor covering her added to the weight. It would be a daunting task, dragging her back through the burning city. If she remembered correctly, there was a gate to the northwest which lead to a stable. If she could make it there, it would be a simple matter of stealing a horse. Then, they could ride hard and fast out of the capital. She clutched Catherine tighter to herself. It was the best chance they had, and the only one that didn’t end in a fiery demise. Suddenly, another shine of silver caught her periphery. This one belonged to a staggering mass, nacreous skin glimmering like a guiding star. _**Seiros.**_

Ahead, the smoke and fire cleared, and made way to the open sky. Shamir wandered closer, drawn to the sight. Her throat, seared from the surrounding air, ached as she swallowed reflexively. There, lying in a gored heap, was all that was left of the Archbishop. The dragon had fallen, scales slick with emerald ichor. At its feet, crouched below the beast’s shadow, were two figures. The ashen hair of Edelgard caused her steps to falter.

The Emperor had yet to spot Shamir, consumed with cradling the person in her lap. The girl, woman now, shook with muffled sobs. Teal locks fell across her lap, making the context clear. Seiros was gone. But at a terrible cost. Shamir drew back, shocked at their appearance and the realization of Byleth’s death. Perhaps the former professor had not been a friend, but Shamir had been fond of her just the same. However, perhaps that emotion was just selfishness; desperate to see any sign of Solomon in the world left to her.

Edelgard bowed her head, cheeks wet with grief. Shamir turned her back. The sight stirred the past in unpleasant ways. She could not afford to succumb to empathy. If the Emperor saw her... Catherine’s life would be forfeit. The Emperor knew, just as she did, that a dangerous enemy could not be left alive. So Shamir stepped away, even as her heart ached with shared pain. The world was not kind to those who loved. She knew that very well.

Shamir raised her head, arms aching with strain, hoping to see the gate she sought. She stilled as a sword blocked her path. It was held to her neck, steel reflecting flame and moon. Her jaw tensed as she struggled to think. To be caught so close to freedom was agonizing. Time was of the essence, and Catherine did not have any to spare. She needed to solve this quickly. Shamir’s eyes swiveled, trailing up an armored arm before meeting a conflicted gaze.

It was Alois, ironic twist fate of that it was. Twice spared by her, and now she was held at blade-point for the effort. Somewhere in the heavens, the Old Father laughed at her hubris. She wiped her expression clean of any panic. The man did not need to see her terror.

“Alois,” Shamir greeted him plainly. The former Knight blinked at her, eyes falling from her own to settle on Catherine’s face. His hand tightened upon the sword.

“Shamir.” Alois swallowed, the apple of his throat convulsing with the effort. “...Why are you here?”

“I thought that would be obvious.” She leaned away, adjusting her grip on the unconscious woman. Alois frowned, and the blade in his hands wavered.

“I-Is she...?”

“Not yet. But she could be soon.” She watched as his brow furrowed, a sign of the man’s whirling thoughts. Alois turned his head, glancing in the Emperor’s direction. Then he slowly turned back to her.

“You should have gone with me.”

“Maybe,” Shamir conceded. “But it’s too late for that. Here I am, allied with the Church and Catherine bleeding out in my arms. Here are you, ready to cut me down. That is the reality we are in.”

His eyes flashed with the truth of that statement. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek. After a heady moment, sword still pressed to Shamir’s skin, he withdrew.

“If there is one truth I know, it is that I owe you my life.” Alois sheathed his blade, the metal humming along leather. Shamir relaxed at the sound. She eyed him as he smiled at her wistfully. “I may not be a Knight any longer, but I still consider myself an honorable man. You spared me once. Now I shall do the same.”

“Thank you, Alois,” Shamir replied. For once, she allowed her voice to be softened with gratitude. The man shook his head, appearing uncomfortable by her sincerity.

“You should leave before the Strike Force gets wind of you.” He looked off in the distance then turned back to her, smoothing the edge of his mustache. A nervous habit that had not disappeared, even after all these years. Shamir nodded her assent. She shouldered open the gate, carefully dragging Catherine with her. Then the night opened its jaws and Shamir stepped into black.

She did not know if the man would keep his silence. She did not know if they would be spotted by Imperial scouts as they escaped. The only certainty was that Catherine was alive, Seiros was not, and the Empire would be left with the ashes of both their actions. As Shamir rode through the charred streets, Catherine's warmth against her, she was content with that knowledge. It was better than the alternative.

Long after the smoke had cleared from her lungs and the heat of a dying city slid from her back, Shamir finally allowed herself to rest. The horse she had stolen was tied, a length of bandage and salve unrolled, and wounds were sown with needle and string. After all was done, Shamir laid herself down upon moss and dirt, hand reaching for another. Catherine, wrapped in blankets and bandages both, slept on. But her chest rose, even and steady as any river.

Then Shamir closed her eyes, willing herself to dream of water and not fire.

**Next Chapter: Spark Test**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Thanksgiving, fellow Americans! And Merry Thursday to everyone else! Once again, sorry this took so long folks. I had a bit of a snafu when I accidentally deleted my fic-folder. I have back ups, but I usually update them after I finish a chapter. Suffice to say, it was not updated and I lost like 7k words. I was in a bit of a funk after that, so I hope that's not reflected too badly in this chapter. As for the story itself, I decided to do something a little different. Normally I write in a linear fashion, but it just wasn't feasible here. If I did that this would be 3X as long as I want it to be. I mean a lot happens in five years and while it's stuff I want to cover, I think this format is for the best. As such, more 'flashbacks' are incoming. If there's stuff you want to see covered, feel free to suggest it! I have some things set in stone, but I could always add more. As for what happened here, I got to admit that it's mostly just setup. I was going to start after the burning of Fhirdiad in my original outline, but I think this was more compelling. A vague summary doesn't quite have the same feel as a full-length chapter lol. Recaps are super exhausting tho. I'm glad it's going to mostly be original stuff from here on. Next chapter will be the first Catherine-centric one (I'm super excited to write it). Thank you for the interest and lovely reviews! You guys are great <3
> 
> Wishing you a wonderful day - AdraCat


	3. Spark Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Knight obeys. A woman falters. The divide that separates both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Warning - The following chapter describes graphic scenes of violence (more than the rest). Please read at your own discretion.

Within the eastern wing of Castle Fhirdiad, a faint noise keened. '_A ghostly wail'_, cried the servants as they skittered to and from its halls. Perhaps it was the late Kings of old; Loog, come again, to rage at the Empire in one final roar. Or perhaps it was Lambert, solemn and weary, to watch over his aggrieved son. Only a select few knew better. A discreet bunch had been selected by the Grand Duke to clean the Archbishop’s quarters; maids of purely Kingdom descent and devout nature. In other words, those who were unlikely to spread spurious rumor.

Yet within the eaves and cloistered in shadow, word had spread. The tale of a woman in mourning, crying out for the lost. For those who had been felled at Garreg Mach. For the Empire, who had been turned from the light of the Goddess. Even for the Emperor herself, brash in her sacrilegious rebellion. _'It was a grandiose display'_, said others. Strange to witness and hard to parse. After all, the Archbishop had never made it a point to mourn the heretics who slandered the Church. But the rumor grew, and soon was taken for truth. In Catherine’s heart, she knew it to be false.

Not her grief, that was entirely genuine. However, Lady Rhea’s reasons could not be so easily summed. The Empire had begun its reign underneath the Church’s purview, but the years since had seen a decline in traditional values. Unlike the fervent support of the Kingdom, the Empire was tame in their belief. Emperor Ionius IX had not decried the Church, but had also not openly supported it. The Imperial nobility had shared the same attitude — neither sneering at the Archbishop’s skirts nor cowering at her heel. They believed in the Goddess, but their fealty was observed in the slightest of ways. Was it truly a surprise that such a place would spawn a girl like Edelgard?

Irreverent. Spiteful in her arrogance. Lady Rhea would not waste her breath mourning for a creature such as her. No. The Archbishop’s tears were an expression of betrayal. The Empire, yes, but mostly from the people she had trusted most. Knights and Bishops who had once served at her behest. Students, young and bright, spitting in the face of the Lady’s mercy. Among them, Alois; traitorous wretch and coward both. And her. **_Byleth_.** It was her Lady Rhea mourned the most.

A galling notion, but Catherine did not turn away from it. But as she heard the muffled sobs echoing along the walls, anger and discomfort stirred within her breast. The wrath she felt was familiar, as comforting as the weight of a sword. However, the unease was an unpleasant ache. Nagging, prodding. She did not want to ponder why. Still, a voice whispered insidious things in a languid rasp. Her own tone and inflection, but much younger.

_Was the Lady not meant to be infallible?_

_ If she is just as lost, what does it mean for us?_

She pushed the thoughts from her mind, willing them to dissipate along with Cassandra. Catherine was a weapon to be wielded. A weapon did not need to ponder such fruitless things. She would trust in the Archbishop. The Lady would overcome this. She must, for the sake of all the faithful. Yet that reassurance proved hollow when she tread the eastern wing.

The Knights had kept their vigil over the Archbishop, even in this turmoil. A periodic change of guard was often needed just as it was with the servants. As she approached the Archbishop’s room, Catherine saw the broad form of Gilbert. The man had his back to her, height obscuring the person he was conversing with. There was a line of tension running up his spine, evident beneath his armor. Suddenly, the sound of fast steps retreated from Gilbert’s position. As Catherine neared, she could spot a lithe frame capped by dark hair rounding the corner.

Shamir. A puzzled frown creased her lips. To her knowledge, the other woman had been sent on reconnaissance to the southern border. It was strange to see her back so soon. Catherine turned an eye to Gilbert. The man had yet to notice her presence. He stared grimly where Shamir had disappeared, brow knit thoughtfully. Confusion growing, she cleared her throat to garner his attention. Despite his preoccupation, Gilbert did not startle. He turned on his heel, sharp grey eyes falling on her.

“Catherine.” The man lingered upon her name, and not quite in his usual clipped manner. His lips pursed. “I did not notice your arrival. How long have you been standing there?”

“You’re losing your touch.” Catherine forced a jovial laugh; a habitual impulse. Her eyes strayed slightly, glancing far beyond him. “Not that long, don’t worry. Whatever you and Shamir talked about is still a secret.”

“It was not meant to be a covert matter.” The planes of Gilbert’s cheeks pulled as his frown deepened. “We were merely discussing the war… and Lady Rhea.”

Catherine straightened, levity falling away.

“Is that so?” She looked to the Archbishop’s door. It was strangely quiet in the hall, and there was a distinct lack of sound emitting from her quarters. The Lady was likely sleeping, or feigning as such. Nonetheless, Catherine lowered her voice. “Anything I need to know?”

“Not at present.” Gilbert shook his head, but the dour expression he wore did not ease. There was a queer sense of disquiet as he stared down at her. She crossed her arms and leaned back on her heel; somewhat unnerved.

“Is something wrong? With Lady Rhea, or Shamir?”

The man’s face shifted noticeably at the mention. He was silent for a time, as if mulling over the question.

“The Lady’s situation has not changed, unfortunately,” Gilbert began slowly. “But neither has it declined. This war has already taken much from her. She has earned her tears and grief.”

Suddenly, the man’s eyes narrowed. A shadow darkened his brow.

“As for Shamir, I admit to a significant amount of concern.”

“What?” Catherine drew back, panic sparking in her breast. She searched his eyes for an explanation. “Has she been wounded? She didn’t look-”

“Nay, Catherine. Shamir is hale and whole as ever.”

“Then what are you saying?” Catherine demanded, posture relaxing. Not for the first, she cursed Gilbert’s inability to be direct. The trappings of Gustave still held the man at times, and that included his penchant for diplomatic speech. Staying in Fhirdiad only exacerbated that tendency.

Gilbert took a long pull of air, chest rising. The man appeared to be gathering himself. Catherine tensed, wary of the Knight’s hesitance.

“There was an incident on the field,” he said at last. “At Garreg Mach; soon after the Empire had broken through the gate.”

His gaze drifted to the side, lost within the memory.

“I noticed her standing at the first barricade, bow pulled and arrow nocked. Her hands were steady, yet she did not fire. At first, I thought she simply could not decipher friend from foe within the ranks. But as her bow dropped I knew that assumption to be false.” Gilbert cut his eyes back to Catherine. “I could not see the opponent she faced. However, the context was certain. She had stayed her hand for an enemy of the Church.”

“That’s nonsense!” Catherine spat. Indignation coiled in her gut like a spring. Gilbert appeared unmoved by her ire. The man stared at her evenly, only serving to ignite her temper. “If you’re accusing her of something, state it plainly or say nothing at all.”

“This is far from a formal accusation.” Gilbert’s tone remained flat. He was not a man who raised his voice and hardly ever succumbed to emotion. Once, she had envied that trait. At present, it only proved infuriating. “Had I been of a mind, I could have taken this matter to Lady Rhea. But I have not, nor do I intend to do as such. Not yet.”

“That’s just a fancy way of saying you lack evidence.” Catherine scowled at him darkly. “Other than something you _might_ have seen several months ago, you have nothing.”

“Her recent conduct and past affiliations are enough. Combined with what I saw that day... I feel it is more than arbitrary suspicion.” Gilbert clasped his arms behind him. “Tell me, Catherine. How well do you know her?”

“What sort of idiotic question is that? We’ve known each other for years, fought by each other’s side, and more.” Catherine exhaled in an irritated huff. “It’s not an exaggeration to say I owe her my life and then some.”

“Yet can you say you know her; every part of her? Her allegiance, her values, her fears, and regrets?”

“Of course.” She stilled. A minor bout of uncertainty washed over her. “Well, perhaps not everything. Shamir keeps most things close to the chest. That doesn’t mean she’s prone to treachery.”

“No, but if we take into account what we do know a picture is painted very clearly.” Gilbert's voice deepened, strengthening with palpable conviction. “Shamir is a mercenary. Foreign, and by her own admission, apathetic to Fόdlan politics. She does not acknowledge the Goddess as holding dominion over the world and as a result, sees the Church as a military entity alone. The Lady, to her, is a mere client. One who may lose this war should the Empire continue its spread.

“So now we get to the heart of it.” Catherine stepped closer, bristling. “Her past with Dagda shouldn’t matter. She’s served the Church and Fόdlan without fail. You can’t just assume—”

“Heritage often makes us who we are. To deny that is foolish.” The older Knight leveled her a cutting glance, expression cold as the stone around them. “She was raised in Dagda, under beliefs and values we do not understand. Can we say where she sends her prayers? Do we know what manner of God holds sway over her? To that end, Shamir is a liability.”

“She is my _partner_. I trust her with everything I am. Liability be damned,” Catherine insisted.

“You trust someone that does not share the same goal — who sees the Archbishop as a woman alone. A person who does not believe in our Goddess, at all.” A faint look of frustration appeared upon his visage. “You are young, so I suppose I cannot fault your naivete. But know this, Catherine. I will not stand aside as yet another betrayal is cast upon the Archbishop. The Lady should not be forced to suffer it.”

“Then what will you do?” She stared at him for a long while. Her hand curled at her side, twitching to grab the relic sheathed at her back. Catherine had always admired the man before her; felt kinship that only former nobility cast from grace could empathize with. However, that did not mean she would allow him to slander Shamir’s name. The woman deserved far more than that.

Gilbert seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts. The tense slope of his shoulders relaxed, and his hands fell from their clasped position. He took a careful step away.

“Despite what you may think, I do not want my suspicions to be proved true. The thought of yet another Knight turning away from the Church is not one that sits easily.” He looked older suddenly, weary in a way she had never seen. Despite his years, Gilbert had always held a placid strength about him. At this moment, he looked like any other man weathered by time. “I will leave this to you, Catherine. You know her far better than I.”

“You shouldn’t worry.” Catherine allowed her stringent tone to ease. “Shamir won’t desert the Church. Neither will she betray us. I have faith in that.”

“Then I will pray your trust is not misplaced.” With one last lingering look, Gilbert turned on his heel. “I will leave you to watch Lady Rhea. Should my presence be requested, I’ll be in the training yard.”

“Fine.” Her response sounded more childish than she meant it to be. Still, how was she meant to take his words? At best they were a curt warning, and at worst a thinly veiled threat towards a person she cared immensely for. Gilbert stopped in his retreat, likely hearing the resentment that remained.

“...Hold her close, Catherine.” The man breathed out, voice a mere murmur. “But not enough for her absence to cripple you. For Lady Rhea’s sake, if not your own.”

Then he strode out of sight, never looking back.

Catherine bit her lip, teeth catching deep into her skin. She flexed her hand, willing her heart to slow. Anger had sped her pulse, but it would be in poor form to let that emotion linger. Lady Rhea needed her head to be clear. Yet as his words echoed in her head, fire burned in her chest. The man was senile, or quickly growing to be. Shamir was far from the duplicitous scum that deserted the Church in the Emperor’s wake. She was better than them.

_Far better than me._

Catherine took a steadying breath. Gilbert would be proven wrong. If not soon, then eventually. The Dagdan woman had never given any of them a reason to suspect her. She was loyal; perhaps not to the Church, but certainly to those she held dear.

_Violet eyes shimmered with rare sincerity, promising something Catherine did not have the courage to ask. _

_ “I could never sever my bond with you,” A quick glance away, almost timid. But her smile had been warm.“If there ever comes a day when our paths diverge, know that I’ll always be with you.”_

Catherine blinked and forced the memory away. She rubbed at her eyes. That day would not come. Shamir would stay at her side. Until this war was over, and far beyond that. Just as she believed in the Goddess, this faith would keep.

* * *

  
  


As time crawled and years passed, her certainty never wavered. The Church would prevail. Lady Rhea would guide them to a new era of peace. The Emperor would be slain, and with her all those who had abandoned the Goddess. Shamir would remain at her side, a buoy to keep her afloat in this tumult. Catherine knew this for fact, as surely as the sun crept across the sky. But in the end, when the Lady spoke, a fracture arose.

The words were bitter and malicious, spoken between gnashed teeth. The Lady’s voice was not her own; not at that moment. It was a stranger’s rasp. One that sent a skitter of fear down her neck. Catherine had never heard the Archbishop sound as such. Her Lady was gentle and kind. Patient, even with those who were far from deserving. When she smiled, the heavens opened and bore their light upon her. Divine, surely as the Goddess intended.

The woman before her held none of that serenity. Her rage was as disquieting as her despair; the orders she gave more frightening than the Emperor’s approach. Yet this woman still bore the Lady’s face. Undeniably, it was her that spat such dark words.

_“_ _Now, Catherine. Set fire to the city.”_

Pitifully, she had frozen; shocked by the order. This was Fhirdiad. The capital of her former home. A place with countless civilians trusting the Church to keep them safe. How could the Lady demand such a thing of her? Nonetheless, the Archbishop was insistent.

_“I shall sacrifice as many lives as it takes.”_

What had Lady Rhea meant by that? Did the Goddess demand a show of fealty before granting Her strength? Was this the bargain that must be struck to rid the world of the Empire?

There weren’t any answers Catherine could find. Yet she still bowed her head in subservience. Her place was not to question the Archbishop or the Goddess. The sword she wielded was proof of Her power, and she must prove herself worthy of that honor. If Lady... If Seiros demanded it, so shall it be. _Dare not doubt or deny the power of the Goddess. _Catherine felt her breath catch. She covered her mouth, ashamed. _Dare not kill, harm, lie, or steal unless such acts are committed by the will of the Goddess._

This was Her will. It must be. Just as it was all those years ago. When Christophe-

Catherine straightened, steeling her jaw. Yes. She would do as the Goddess bids. The Lady was good and righteous. She would not guide them towards destruction, only salvation. Catherine turned and faced her partner; the stalwart woman who had weathered the long years by her side. Shamir was staring intently in return.

The woman’s thoughts were a mystery. There was nothing to be gleaned from her face. Her gaze was still, glassy like a pond. But underneath, something lurked in shadow. Catherine tried to smile, hoping to ease the tension between them. It did not work, and the oppressive atmosphere stayed.

Then, Shamir leaned up and touched her cheek. It startled her, more than anything else had. The woman had never reached for her like this. On the rare occasions their skin met, it was always quick and nondescript. Small encounters that could easily be swept aside in favor of easy companionship. Her touch was soft, lingering. Fingers trailed down her cheek, but the intimacy of the act was marred. It did not feel like reassurance. It felt like goodbye.

_“_ _I can’t.”_

Catherine’s heart did not stop. Instead, it merely ached. Despite the numerous times she told herself otherwise, something within her had always known the truth. Shamir could not choose her forever. She had said as much back in their days at Garreg Mach. That did not stop the well of agony that gathered in her heart.

As her partner’s hand fell, the anger she was prepared to feel refused to come. Rather, what tightened her throat and stung her eyes was an immense sadness. It burned her lungs, mingling with shattered faith. Was this not in contradiction to the promise she had made?

_You said you would not sever this bond. _It had been a lie. One she took willingly, just so Catherine would not have to face the inevitable. Shamir; mercenary above partner. Why had she expected anything different?

Catherine turned her back. She focused on the ground, breathing deep and counting the stones. Then she heard the patter of footsteps, each one tinged with a note of finality. Soon there was only silence. Catherine refused to look. She did not wish to see the tail end of Shamir’s shadow, disappearing from her life. _Weak._ A bitter laugh ripped from her mouth. How pitiful she was. To be a Sword of the Goddess and yet devastated by something so simple. The acknowledgment of her foolishness did very little to soothe.

Her breaths remained fast, as if she could not quite swallow enough air. Catherine rubbed her face. A hard knot of something she refused to name settled in her throat. All the while, a city waited in ignorance. The task she had been given needed to be completed. The Knight looked over the dark horizon, past the gates where the land gave way to forest. She imagined Shamir riding through the trees. Perhaps across the sea and onto Dagda’s shore. The yearning this elicited was painful.

As Catherine stalked down the ramparts, love and hate bled together until they were one and the same._ This __was__ easier_, she told herself. _Better, that I walk __alone__. _In the distance, Lady Seiros roared into the night. Gilbert had been right, in the end. She really had been naive.

  
  


* * *

  
  


When Catherine was a girl, her father had taken her to Fhirdiad. It was the greatest city in Faerghus, he had told her. The jewel of House Blaiddyd, and throne of the King. It had been a point of pride for her at the time. After all, she had been chosen and not her brother. Alexander had not been amused. They were the eldest children, crest-blooded both, and constantly in competition. But Father had favored her from the start. Perhaps it was because she looked the most like him. Or maybe it was simply because she took to warfare more easily than her bookish sibling. Whatever the reason, it led to Catherine tripping along her father’s shadow within the capital.

Fhirdiad was massive and grand. Streets the color of bronze. The markets bustling, trading smiles and goods both. Houses, tall and compact like obelisks of even stone. And the Castle. _The __Castle__! _How striking to see it from a child’s eyes. It spiraled high into the heavens, as if the spires could reach the Goddess herself. She had never seen anything of its like. Not even Father’s impressive estate could compare. Surely, this was the difference between nobility and royalty. That sense of contrast only grew as King Lambert walked out to greet them.

The man was tall, just over her father’s own significant stature. However, his presence was felt even from afar. He had smiled, shining gold as only a Lion of Blaiddyd could. Then the clouded sky parted, and the sun bore upon him like a divine cloak. _This is what the Church meant,_ Catherine had thought. The Goddess shines her light upon the worthy; so it was only right that Her light would bless the King and his city. Years later, that impression never faded; strengthening as her eyes fell upon the Archbishop.

A morbid sense of irony filled her as she walked those very streets again. Once, she had looked upon them with a childish sense of wonder. Marveling at the artists peddling their wares. Cooing at the street dogs winding through her legs. Of course, she had never dreamed of putting that same city to the torch. The disparity sat heavy, a chain wrapped tight about her neck. The marketplace was barren; the stalls free of product and coin. A line of houses lay just beyond, candlelight flickering upon wooden panes. As she looked at them, the torch in her hand turned to lead. It hovered limply at her side.

To her back, a group of Church soldiers awaited her command. Fire gleamed off their polished armor, and smoke tipped their ears as they held the flames. Most were young, given to Garreg Mach to raise as militants of the faith. They were not cowed by the task ahead of them. Their will would not be shaken, even with such a grim order. The others were just as she. Disgraced nobility or criminals seeking atonement within service to the Goddess. It was them who eyed the city with pallid faces; sweat upon the brow, fear gleaming in their eyes.

None of these men would make the first move. They drew their strength from her. From the supposed legend she was meant to be. Thunder Catherine; loyal servant to the Goddess and wielder of Thunderbrand. It was a farce. She was nothing, just a tool with no will of her own. Cassandra had dared to be more and that ended in misery. It was she_,_ that silly girl who still believed in heroes and dreams, that stayed her hand. Cassandra, who wanted to serve her country and King with all her heart. A helpless fool who let Christophe-

Catherine raised the torch. It was pointless to think about now. Cassandra was long dead, buried with the boy she had failed. A Knight of Seiros had taken her place. One who would not falter in the path she had chosen. So she drew back her arm and cast the fire into the night. It caught upon thatch, devouring everything in its fiery embrace. Behind her, a salvo of flame soared high before crashing upon wood and stone. The soldiers’ faith was greater than their reticence.

And so the will of the Goddess was complete.

It did not take long, for the fire to take root. Across the city is spread, growing in intensity with every torch cast. Still, Catherine continued. One after the other; on and on. Flint to steel. Spark to wood. Flame to ash. From the northern district to the south, until all of Fhirdiad was draped in a grey and orange haze.

The screams had begun long before, piercing the air. Deep and shrill, like a siren out at sea. All accompanied by the hungry crackle of fire. Next came the shattering of glass, from pressure and human hand both. People burst into the streets, desperate to escape. Most were not so fortunate. The city had been prepared for the Empire’s attack, and homes reflected as such. Boarded doors. Nailed shutters. Done to protect the occupants within, but were now only an obstacle in their escape.

How many were gasping for air, scrabbling to find purchase in their burning home? How many slept in ignorance of the danger?

Catherine could not think of them. It was not their lives that mattered. If this was what the Goddess needed to guarantee their victory…

She turned away and stumbled into the dark. A wracking cough tore out her mouth, tongue thick with smoke. She took shelter in an alley, cold stone on either side of her. Her eyes squeezed shut, moisture gathering despite herself. Catherine tried to breathe, but every inhale was sharp and weak. She leaned her head on the alley wall. _This was necessary. For the sake of the Lady. _Her hands began to shake. _For the Goddess._

But as her heart raced and her body trembled, invoking Her name had never felt more insubstantial. _This shouldn’t be happening. It __**wouldn’t**__ be, had it not been for..._ A notion dawned on her abruptly.

Yes. That was right, wasn’t it? All of this would not have been necessary were it not for_ her_. Edelgard. Emperor of Flame; harbinger of war. Kin-slayer and murderer. The selfish little bird who thought herself above divinity. It was her audacity that angered the Goddess; which brought this terror upon Fόdlan. The Lady was forced into the role of Seiros by that girl. If Edelgard was gone, surely the world would right itself. Faerghus and Leicester would be free. Lady Rhea could sheathe her fangs. And perhaps…

Catherine pushed off the wall. She reached for the relic, curling her fingers tight. The Empire would not be kept at bay for long. Soon, they would breach the walls and head straight for Lady Rhea. Edelgard and her miserable cur would be at the head. Surely, it would not take much. Their skills had been middling at the academy, and while five years had passed she doubted any significant change had occurred.

The girl had slipped her grasp before, but that had merely been luck. No amount of surprise cavalry would be enough to save her. She would cut this snake at the head, once and for all. Then, everything would return to how it was.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The courtyard was where the victor would be crowned. The place in which Lady Seiros would crush all usurpers of the faith, and rend an Emperor from her throne. Catherine lay in wait, staring at the gates where Edelgard and her hoard would break through. She could hear the metallic clank of imperial armor, the discordant thrum of soldiers bashing against iron. But above all else were the screams. From the Empire, rallying their forces, to the fire still spreading around them. And others — those who could not be saved.

Then the gates fell and _she_ appeared. The Emperor in all her terrible glory. Silver crowned with gold. Crimson-stained; blood and cloak both. Within her hands, a ghastly axe writhed; bastardized version of the Goddess’ gifts that it was. Catherine could not see her face. Not from behind the barricades of flame, but she knew the hunger that would lie within. Edelgard von Hresvelg would not be satisfied with victory alone. Her cause was not merely subversion, but eradication. She, who denied the Goddess, desired no contest. Her will would supplant the heavens and damn those in her wake.

_An arrogant brat who had been given more power than she deserved._ Catherine raised her sword. The men at her back did the same. The Knight bared her teeth, thinking of the last time she saw the Emperor. The girl had appeared so confident, expression free of anxiety. She had not believed the older woman would kill her. The reminder of that smug certainty stoked Catherine’s rage.

She would cleave the bitch in two and throw her insolent head at the Archbishop’s feet. Then, and only then, could she rest.

As the fight began — Imperial sword meeting Church shield — the fire continued its fury. Flames licked and danced alongside silver and black. Axe, lance, and sword all met in endless repetition. Blood splattered the ground and boiled. The scent of char from the dead and the living rose into the air.

The taste of rust and smoke was overpowering. Yet Catherine was undaunted. Her body was built for this. To slide a blade through skin and bone. To weave through the mass of bodies, as easily as water. War was her calling, all under the banner of the Goddess. Ever since her birth, when crest took to blood, this was what she was meant to do. Defend the faith. Cull the unworthy. And who was the most unworthy among them?

Catherine pulled Thunderbrand free, the man she had gored falling to his knees. Then he collapsed, swallowed by fire. Her head lifted. She wiped her brow, blinking away salt and soot. Then, as if the light itself were guiding her eyes, she saw the greatest enemy of all. Edelgard swung her axe in the distance. The girl hefted the fake relic easily, sparks of red leaping from its grotesque maw. Catherine felt a thrill of anticipation.

The Emperor evidently had not spotted her. She was too consumed with a nearby archer, using her shield to ward off his volley. Her back was unguarded, the battalion she had brought scattered to the north. Catherine pushed forward. She kept her gaze to the girl, Thunderbrand weightless in her hand. All it would take was one clean swipe, and this senseless war would finally end. She arched her blade, aiming right for the golden mockery of her Lady adorning the pretender’s head.

Sadly, something must have caught Edelgard’s attention. The Emperor turned, shield raised high. Scarlet sparks erupted as relic clashed against hardened steel. Catherine retreated, hands aching with the resultant vibration. She sneered at the girl.

“Catherine.” Edelgard merely tilted her head in greeting, as if a growing blaze did not hound their steps. How infuriatingly characteristic. Catherine edged one foot forward, relic poised to strike.

“Edelgard,” The Knight returned. She refused to use her formal title. The girl hardly deserved her respect. “This won’t end the way it did before. We both know I’m the better warrior between us.”

“Do we?” Edelgard stepped to the side, circling. The edge of her obnoxious cape billowed. It was a distraction, but only a lesser combatant would follow the sight. Catherine kept her attention on purple eyes. They were pale, several shades off from Shamir’s. She had a viper’s stare, the archer had observed once. Catherine could not deny the unsettling similarity.

“It’s been five years since our last spar,” The Emperor continued, voice light. “You were the victor, as I recall. But I’m older now; wiser. And you?” She glanced up and down in an analytical motion. “You’ve been worn down by time. Rhea’s oppressive influence no doubt.”

“You were a little shit then, and so very superior. Glad to see nothing has changed.” Catherine chuckled darkly. “Perhaps you can hold your own a little more. It still won’t matter. You’re alone now, and I’m not letting you go.”

“Alone?” Edelgard raised a silver brow. The line of her mouth twisted as if hiding a smile. “I’m never alone. You, however... Well, my scouts saw a certain sniper not too long ago. Tell me, how is Shamir?”

The slight stung more than it ought to have.

“That’s none of your concern!” Catherine seethed. She lunged forward, hoping to catch the girl off guard. Thunderbrand sliced through the air, directed at the Emperor’s front. Edelgard twisted and the blow glanced off her shield.

The conflict raged anew for both of them. But it was not the one-sided fight Catherine had expected. Despite the seemingly cumbersome armor and shield, Edelgard proved a swift opponent. Her steps were fleet and sure-footed. The movements she made calculated rather than impulsive. She had indeed improved. _That means nothing. _Catherine sliced up into a disarming parry. Edelgard dodged, axe drawn back. _My hand is guided by the Goddess. _The macabre relic convulsed, pantomiming a predator’s jaws. Catherine met its teeth with Thunderbrand’s own. The weapons sparked, divine power raging against unholy counterpart.

_I will prevail because it is Her will._

With a roar, Catherine pushed the Emperor back. Thunderbrand pulsed in her grip, emitting a brilliant light. The girl blinked in surprise but quickly recovered. Edelgard backpedaled warily. _That’s right. This is the difference between us. _A weapon blessed by the Goddess could never lose to some pretender’s toy. By what means the Emperor acquired such a hideous thing, one could only wonder. Nevertheless, Catherine’s relic was a gift of birthright. The Crest of Charon chose her in the womb. The Goddess found her worthy, and thus the conflict was hers to win.

Sword ablaze, Catherine gnashed her teeth. She raised her blade, the weight of this moment dawning. Blood rushed in her ears as she readied the relic for a vicious swing. But it would be for naught. She looked down just in time to see golden fangs wrap around her leg. The segments slithered tight; a cobra's grip. Then they bit into her flesh and tugged. Pain turned her world on its head. Through air and flame, she sailed, momentum tossing her heavily into a wall.

The impact stole her breath. She slumped to the earth, weapon clattering somewhere in the distance. Lights flickered behind her eyes, tongues of color in red and white. She tried to steady herself, but the daze refused to fade. Catherine leaned back, trying to use the wall as support. Her legs gave out from under her, and she noticed a river of red pouring from her right calf. The sight was a horror. Flesh ripped open in uneven ribbons, bone clearly seen. Blinding pain pulsed along the wound, quickening her pulse.

The guttural shuffle of armor caught her attention. She opened her eyes and saw silver and green. Edelgard stood over her, the superior smirk from her memory making an appearance. At her side, the ever-loyal Byleth lurked. The woman’s gaze was blank as ever. Her golden sword twisted and writhed as if it were a living thing. Blood dripped along the edge; a perfect match for the organic monstrosity the Emperor held. Catherine’s lip curled.

“Of course. You can’t face me alone, so you have your pet mercenary finish the job.” She laughed without humor. “Well, go on then. Try and cut me down.”

“I did say I wasn’t alone.” Edelgard smoothed down her armored dress, clearing ash from the fabric. The mundane act was a mockery. Catherine’s face twisted, anger burning two-fold. “Hard of hearing must be a requirement within the Knights. You lot do tend towards the oblivious.”

“Your Majesty,” Byleth called to her Emperor suddenly. The woman looked down at Catherine for a moment, then turned away. “Rhea is ahead. We should focus on that.”

“You’re right, as you always are.” Edelgard smiled. The sight was sickening. Catherine curled her hand around a pile of ash. It was warm, still smoldering with fresh embers. They cracked her flesh, but she paid it no heed. The Emperor’s eyes were drawn back to her prone form.

“I do have a question for you.” Edelgard schooled her features. All trace of warmth fled, and in its place was frost. Catherine stilled, unwilling to betray her intent. “The city burns because of Rhea. I know that much to be true. But was it by your hand the spark was lit?”

“Should it matter?” Catherine huffed. She hoped the girl could not see the pain she felt. Fhirdiad was a necessary evil. She swallowed hard. _It must be._ Edelgard pursed her lips.

“I respected you once. As a Knight. Then as an enemy.” The Emperor trailed carefully. Her frown deepened. “I never dreamed you would be capable of something like this. Cyril, perhaps, if only due to a lack of Fόdlan ties. But neither you or Gilbert.”

“The Goddess willed it, because of _you_.” Catherine rasped. Her mouth was dry, rough with smoke. But she continued, imparting all the rage she was capable of. “Were it not for you Fhirdiad would be untouched! It was your actions that made this necessary. I held the flame, but you provided the match.”

“I see. So it _was_ you.” A shadow fell over the Emperor’s eyes. “And did you give no thought to the civilians? Or were they secondary to what the ‘Goddess’ desired?”

“Your ignorance betrays itself!” Catherine snarled. “The Lady is Her voice, and we are Her swords. Our duty goes beyond the common folk. We cannot stay our hands in regard to them. If they die, so be it. It is within the plan of the Goddess!”

Catherine made her move then. Swiftly, she threw the mound of burning ash into the girl’s face. Edelgard recoiled, hand flying to swipe the char away. The telltale sing of metal was the only warning Catherine had for what would happen next. Iron thrust deep into her leg, embedding into her bloodied calf.

She screamed, hand reaching in reflex for the blade. It had pierced through like butter, passing all the way into the ground. Blood poured from the wound in harsh streams. A pale hand fell away from the handle. Byleth stared down at her, oddly composed despite the malicious act. Edelgard placed a hand upon the woman’s shoulder.

“That will be enough, Byleth. She won’t be going anywhere.” The Emperor’s tone was short, patience clearly tried. Her eyes remained upon the Knight. The ash had damaged her very little. Only a slight burn curved along her jaw. A pity it would not scar that irritating face forever.

“It will not be I who takes your life, Catherine. That honor will be given to your own hubris. The flames you created will swallow you whole, and all that will be left is a ruin of your own making. Pray to the Goddess that your death will be quick.”

Then the Emperor turned her back and stalked away. Byleth did not immediately follow. The woman looked at Catherine for a protracted moment. Pale green eyes, frustratingly similar in hue to the Lady, peered down at her. She did not know what Byleth was searching for. Perhaps the woman only wanted to savor an opponent’s eventual death.

Catherine was not a fool. She could not walk in this state, and the Church soldiers that were left had long since fled. The fire had increased in strength, flames now twice as tall as a man. Her fate was sealed. It would be more of a mercy to kill her outright, but Catherine would not lower herself by asking for that and Byleth was unlikely to give it.

“I always knew...,” she managed hoarsely. “From the moment we met. You felt nothing for the Church, nor Lady Rhea. Still, she trusted you. I should have done away with you then, before you knelt for that-”

“I don’t know what Rhea told you,” Byleth cut her off. Her tone was curiously soft; solemn. “But do you really think the Goddess you know, the one you believe in, would ask this of you?”

She swept her hand out, gesturing to the blackened walls around them. Catherine bowed her head. She did not want sympathy. Hatred she could handle, but pity... Catherine would rather die. So she grit her teeth and said nothing. Byleth was just as silent, but she expected nothing less. The woman left, leaving Catherine to her miserable end.

She slumped on the wall, heat gathering at her back. What was left to her now? Fire surrounding, blood dripping in a tide onto stone and ash. A sequence of events she had started. All to please the Goddess. Was this really how she fell? The service she had given; the blood she had shed... Was it not enough? Catherine stared at the gaping wound in her leg. She would bleed out if she removed the blade. Yet a slow end held no appeal, and the Archbishop was still alive. At least, at present.

A thunderous roar shook the air. Wind passed across the field, clearing the smoke for a time. Through the haze, Catherine could just make out the shape of wings. She steeled her nerves and reached for the sword. Lady Seiros needed her. Her role was not over. Not when Edelgard still breathed and her Lady remained in danger. She wrapped her hands around the edge, metal biting the material of her gloves. Her grip was sure as she pulled.

The pain was intense, burning just as hot as the surrounding fire. Catherine gasped, sweat dripping down her face. Yet she did not stop. Refused to bow to an inevitable end. Her hands shook, but persistence gave way to result. The blade loosened from the dirt and began its upward path back through her flesh. Blood poured faster, dangerously, but that did not slow her progression. Eventually, Catherine freed the sword with an anguished cry.

_Steel and iron. _A voice from her childhood came to her. Her father’s. _This is what our House is made of. _He had been right, as he so often was. The ore made their House what they were, but it was their steel of character Lord Charon had held in the most esteem. She would prove it to him at this moment.

Huffing in exertion, Catherine struggled to her feet. A sword was not made to be used as a crutch, but it would have to work. However, a flawed plan yielded only failure. At the apex of her stride, the searing ache in her leg ignited into torment. Her grip loosed from the sword and she fell back to the ground.

Catherine lay there, heaving. Slowly, her fingers grasped along the stones. She felt her way forward, dragging her body across. Her will was greater than this. She would not let herself die here. Not when her Lady needed her. _Goddess grant me strength. See me through this. _Her progress was slow, and the walls of flame only grew. Towering in their might, damning in their encroachment. The stones burned the tips of her fingers. Palms became seared as she crawled, and yet the distance refused to lessen.

Soon, it became too much. Her lungs were full of smoke, searing down her throat and stifling each gasp for air. She fell back one final time. Catherine’s hands were limp; merely useless stumps of meat she could not control. Her head swam, and a revelation came to her belatedly. She was dying, wasn’t she? And the aid she had called for would not come.

_ The Goddess did no__t bless__ the un__deserving__. _Catherine shut her eyes tight. It was still not enough. All these years of training and preparation, yet what had it amounted to? Nothing. Catherine would die here. Another nameless soldier, trampled under the Emperor’s heel.

_ I failed the Goddess. I failed the Lady. Just as I did Christophe._

Cassandra had always fought. Struggle was in her nature, even back when her name had been noble and good. So it was in Catherine’s nature as well. But she could not overcome this by raging at circumstance. Her death had been signed from the moment Byleth’s sword wrapped around her leg. She looked one last time at the dragon in the distance. Would the Lady mourn her?

_Would anyone?_

Alexander and Father were already gone; gathered safely in the Goddess’ embrace. The rest of House Charon would pay little mind to her passing. The siblings she barely knew were not likely to shed any tears. Catherine’s thoughts drifted to Shamir. No, she decided bitterly. The woman she once called partner would not grieve for her. Shamir had already proved that. The Dagdan’s own life was more important. Yet despite these morbid musings, she dared to hope.

As unconsciousness threatened, Catherine felt someone kneel at her side. They reached for her shoulder, hold gentle and secure. _Goddess...?_ The answer slipped from her grasp as she sank into the dark.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_“_ _What do you want to be?”_

_ “What?” Cassandra blinked up at her friend. The boy smiled, running a careless hand through his hair. The strands were a silvery platinum color she had always envied. His green eyes flashed with mirth._

_ “_ _I said, what do you want to be?” Christophe twisted his wrist idly. “_ _You know, in the future. Once we’re done with our education.”_

_ “I imagine I’ll take over as Head of House Charon.” Cassandra thought on that for a bit. “Well, after my old man decides to give me the reins that is.”_

_ Christophe clicked his tongue._

_ “Not what I meant. I said what you wanted to do, not what you’re forced into.”_

_ “I’m hardly being forced.” The young woman straightened, somewhat offended. “It is a great honor to serve the King as his banner-man. House Charon controls the greatest production of ore within all of Faerghus. Once I’m Lord-”_

_ “Etcetera,_ _etcetera...” Christophe laughed in his usual irreverent way. “All I’m hearing is a bunch of excuses. And who is to say the good Lord Charon will let you rule? Alexander is just a year younger, and what of the man you are to marry?”_

_ “Marriage? I hardly have to worry about that yet." Cassandra scoffed at that. “If my father wanted to sell me off, he would have already done so. As for my brother..._ _Alexander is too weak, and not just of the body. Father knows this.”_

_ “_ _You’re prevaricating.”_

_ “And you’re being ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes. Christophe was a treasure__d_ _friend, but his flights of fancy were too much. “Look, in a world where I’m not the heir and I was just any other unimportant idiot... I suppose being a craftsman might be nice.”_

_ “Craftsman? Like an artist, or a carpenter?” The young man plopped down beside her, genuine __interest_ _shining in his gaze._

_ “_ _Neither, really. I don’t know. Something along those lines though.” _ _Cassandra rolled her shoulders. “I’ve always been handy. Why not make a living of it?”_

_ “Ah. I must admit, I’m a bit disappointed.”_

_ “Why? What do you think I would choose to do?”_

_Christophe brought his hand up, playfully cupping his chin._

_ “You could always make it big on the stage.” He cleared his throat. “I could see it now. Cassandra the Bold, with the sun in her hair and the sea in her eyes! Oh, what a _ _stunning beauty!_ _”_

_ “Say that again, and I’ll slug you in the mouth.”_

_ “But what would you__r_ _ husband say?”_

_She pushed him away and he fell back, laughing all the while._

_ “_ _Fine, fine. But in all honesty...” Christophe sobered. He grinned broadly. “I think no matter what it is, you would go at it with all your heart.”_

_ “_ _Piss off._ _” Cassandra scratched her cheek, avoiding his eyes._

_ “I’m serious. You’re __good with a sword, I’ll grant you that. Better than all the other Lions put together. But only because I know you work so hard at it.” _ _The boy picked up a stray acorn. It had most likely_ _fallen from the tree towering above them. “You know, I think you’re like this.”_

_ “An acorn? Has the heat gone to your head?”_

_ “Maybe, but humor me for a second.”_

_Cassandra snorted but relented nonetheless. She waved her arm airily, motioning for him to continue. _ _Christophe held the seed up between his fingers._

_ “_ _Talent is one thing, but focus and passion is another. Had you the mind, you could do anything. Go anywhere. Just as this acorn could be blown by the wind and take root elsewhere.”_

_ “You sound like an Imperial scholar.” Cassandra stared off into the distance. The garden was populated with more students now. Most were taking a break from their studies just like her. But they were not the same, really. The vast majority held nothing to their name; minor nobility with little to inherit. They did not have a centuries-old legacy to uphold. “Pretty words, but it’s not like it means anything. I’m going to serve the King, take over my House, and never look back. It’s my duty as the heir of House Charon.”_

_She craned her head and glanced at her friend._

_ “Enough about me. What about you? Surely _ _the great Lord Christophe Lonato Gaspard isn't running away from _ _his_ _ responsibility.”_

_ “I’m not a Lord yet, and there’s still time to do as I please.” _ _The young man crossed his legs before leaning his palms along his ankles. Christophe appeared wistful suddenly. “Before I’m trapped by my station, I would like to do some good in the world. Make a difference somewhere.”_

_ “You’re a dreamer.”_

_ “Yes.” He laughed brightly. “But is there anything wrong with that? _ _Someone has to live in the clouds, what with you _ _acting_ _ so serious all the time.”_

_ “_ _Hmph. While you’re off making a difference, I’ll be right here waiting. Not everyone can gallivant as carelessly as you do.”_

_ “_ _As you insist, dear Lady. Perhaps you should take up a hobby in the meantime. I hear sewing is just like stabbing _ _with a tiny sword."_

_Her answering jab was fiercer than the last. Christophe rubbed his arm, beaming like the jovial fool he was. _ _Cassandra hid her own amused smirk. It was all in good fun, of course, but she_ _could hardly let him get away with that remark. Christophe feigned a pout, _ _but she ignored him in favor of climbing to her feet._

_ “_ _We should head back__. _ _The professor won’t like it if we dawdle too long.”_

_ “Aye. Let’s."_

  
  


_* * *_

  
  


Catherine did not wake easily. She tore herself from slumber, head muzzy with thoughts she could not string together. Then she blinked, and the dream she was ripped from disappeared completely. Catherine swallowed, throat and tongue uncomfortably dry. Her hands shook as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. Why did she see _him?_ That time belonged to a girl who no longer existed. She was Catherine; not Cassandra. She inhaled raggedly, looking around herself.

To her surprise, the surrounding location was not the familiar walls of her quarters in Garreg Mach, nor was it the sparse room she had been provided in the castle. It was a cave, cool and damp. She looked down, taking in the roll of furs underneath her body. _Why am I…?_ Then, like lightning, Catherine remembered. Fhirdiad. The Emperor’s attack. Byleth's golden blade. And then there was the fire_._

She looked down at her hands. They were pocked with burns and cuts, starting from the tips down to the crest of her palm. They were not grave by any means. Any Bishop worth their salt could heal this. Then her gaze drifted down, and the real damage was revealed. Her armor had been removed, baring most of her skin to the dim light. It was easy to see the sloping cascade of bandages wrapped around her torso and limbs. Most appeared to be shallow wounds; likely damage from the flames. The one which gave her pause was the one around her leg.

It was stained an ugly maroon, heavily soaked through with blood. As she stared at it, the ache returned. Catherine tried to flex the muscle, but that proved a mistake. Agonizing pain raced up her spine and rattled her teeth. She buried her hands within the bedding, grasping for anything to tether herself to. Then the sensation lessened into a bearable throb. Her head fell back onto the furs.

A well of _something_ bubbled in her chest. Fear? Hope? She couldn’t say for certain. Catherine had not expected to live. Not with the Emperor and her soldiers so close at hand. And the fire... How had she escaped? Perhaps Gilbert had survived, or some other church soldier. But what had become of the Lady? If she was already gone—

The feeling intensified, causing her heart to race. It took her a moment, but she finally realized what it was. This leaden knot in her throat; the sting of her eyes and acrid churning in her gut. It was disappointment; sitting hot and heavy. But hadn’t she felt the touch of the Goddess? In her last moments, the presence at her side had been Her. It must have been. So why was she still here?

She heard a sound come from up ahead. Daylight poured from the cave’s mouth, and a figure appeared. Their form was encased in shadow. Instinctively, Catherine squinted; hoping to discern their features. As they ventured close, the person’s graceful gait sparked recognition. She stilled, physical pain forgotten.

It was Shamir. The woman appeared placid, face wiped clean of emotion. Other than a shallow cut across her brow, she looked unharmed. Catherine stared at her, uncertain of what she should be feeling. On one hand, the woman had abandoned the Church in a dire time of need. On the other, Shamir had apparently saved her life. _What little worth that action had._ Yet Catherine was too startled by this development to react. Neither anger nor joy swelled in her heart. There was a void where those feelings should lie.

Rather than approach, Shamir set down a bundle of cloth and leaned against the cave wall. Violet eyes looked at her evenly.

“...Two days.”

Catherine gazed back, confused.

“What?” It was hard to talk properly. She heard her voice croak and winced. Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Catherine’s head fared no better. Shamir just kept observing in her typical manner.

“If you were wondering how long you’ve been asleep, it’s been two days.” The other woman pressed her lips together. She looked uneasy. “Healing isn’t a talent I have, but I did what I could.”

“I noticed,” Catherine responded, still adjusting. She swallowed through the sharp scratch making its home in her throat.

“We should keep moving once you're able.” Shamir changed her focus to the most severe wound. “There are a few villages on the way to Conand. We should be able to find a healer somewhere. The Empire will be too busy settling affairs in Fhirdiad to notice.”

Suddenly, the anger Catherine had failed to summon before roared to life.

“Edelgard you mean.” She clenched her fists, yanking at threads of fur. “She lives. And the Lady is...?”

Shamir was painfully quiet. The woman looked away. Any trace of hope Catherine might have held dissipated into nothing — burned away, like everything else.

“So she’s gone.” Catherine took a stuttering breath. “Did you see it?”

The other woman did not answer. Catherine pressed on, needing to know the truth. She searched the other woman’s eyes; desperate. “Tell me! Did you see them…?”

“The Archbishop had already fallen by the time I noticed.” Shamir glanced back, a glint of what might be sympathy upon her face. It was hard to say with her. “I was concerned with more important things.”

“Like _saving_ me?” Catherine managed a sharp laugh. It rebounded across the cave, echoing higher until it sounded like a scream. “Useless. You should have been there for _her_ instead of me.”

Shamir’s jaw tensed noticeably. Good. That meant she had struck a nerve.

“I told you. Rhea wasn’t my priority. Hasn’t been for a long time.” A heavy pause ensued. “She’s dead, Catherine. But you’re still here.”

“Because of you.” It burst out of her mouth like an accusation, but Catherine refused to recant. “I’m nothing. You should have protected _her_. The Lady was the leader of the faith. The last wall preventing the Empire’s spread. Yet you let her die, and for what?”

“The Church may be gone, but belief does not hinge upon a singular person.” Shamir crossed her arms, unfettered. “I don’t understand Fόdlan. Rhea is dead, but your Goddess isn’t. Pick up, move on. It’s that simple.”

“You’re telling me to just _ignore this_?”

“Essentially, yes.” She folded a lock of hair behind her ear. “Catherine, you’re alive. That is a gift in of itself. Whether you choose to think of it as divine intervention, that’s your prerogative.”

“You don’t get it.” Catherine took a deep breath, holding back her temper. It was a difficult task, made all the more trying by the blatant dismissal on the other woman’s face. “The Lady meant more to this world than anything else. She was the light in the dark. Blessed and sacred to the Goddess. Her death can’t just be brushed aside.”

“I know enough.” Despite her cool facade, Shamir’s voice lowered with frustration. “Perhaps to you and the Church, she was all those things. But the Rhea you cared for did not exist. Not at the end. A monster remained; one you willingly served with pride.”

Catherine stared at her, jarred by the words._ Monster? _The heat of her anger sharpened, transforming into an unfathomable rage.

“Get out.”

Violet eyes widened, before narrowing into slits.

“Catherine-”

“_Get out!_”

For a moment, it seemed Shamir would not comply. Then she sighed, before straightening.

“Fine. But if you need anything I’ll be just outside.”

“I don’t care.” Catherine hissed out, blood boiling her veins. “_Leave_. Before I strangle you.”

The woman said nothing in response. She merely turned and strode back into the light of day. Alone now, Catherine sank back to the ground. She glared up at the cave ceiling. It was more than outrage which flared inside of her. A font of fatigue, terror, and sorrow also welled. Lady Rhea was gone. Murdered at the hands of the Emperor. This wasn’t meant to happen. The Goddess should have guided the Archbishop to victory. If She did not intervene for the Lady, then who else? Why did a wretch like Edelgard survive when the pillar of all that was good in this world did not?

_Why _ _was **I** allowed to live?_

Catherine shifted and buried her head into her hands. Once, she had been able to hear the Goddess’ answer upon the wind. Within the words Lady Rhea spoke. In each breath which gave her life. There was nothing now. Only her own voice, bloodied and desperate for guidance, was left.

  
  


  
  


  
  


**Next Chapter: Austenitized**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - ...Why am I like this? Most writers create nice fluffy stuff to fill your heart with joy, and here I am providing the opposite. Geeze. Anywho, we got our first Catherine-centric chapter here. She's an interesting character to delve into, because her beliefs are so absolute it can be hard to separate what she as a person desires. I hope I illustrated that well enough. She's not a hero, by her own admission in canon, but she has traditionally heroic qualities. Had Rhea not gone off the deep end in CF (or you know, used the countless centuries to deal with her issues) Catherine would be just as she appears. But she isn't. She committed an atrocity upon the people of her former country. And while she hated the prospect, she still followed orders. Not throwing shade btw, I happen to love her character (why else would I write this? Lol ). I just feel the need to clarify because I've been accused of denigrating loyalty to anyone other than El. Absolute loyalty is problematic in of itself, as I see it. There's a certain romanticism, but when applied in practice it can get sticky. Adding faith on top of all that is just a recipe for bad times. Stuff is going to get worse before it gets better, but the ride sure will be something. Regarding the structure of this chapter, its a bit of a contrast to our other lovely lady. Unlike Shamir, who is deeply mired in the past and where it led her, Catherine is the opposite. I tried to get that across a little, but I think it will be more prominent later. Cassandra and Christophe will appear again too. They have a role to play, even if Catherine doesn't particularly want to think about it. Don't be afraid to tell me how you feel! I want to hear what you liked and where you think I may be taking this.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter took a bit longer than I had planned. But the holidays are here and they are kicking my butt. Speaking of, how do you fine folks feel about a Edeleth and friends winter special? Don't worry fellow Cathmirs, I will only be taking a short break to write it. After that, I got a bunch of things in store <3
> 
> Happy holidays ~ AdraCat


	4. Austenitized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exploration of choice and the nature of differing faith.  
Two women grow at once closer and apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Angel, a friend who's currently having a difficult time. Well wishes to you and yours. Your constant support has been incredible, and I hope this chapter makes you feel a bit better <3

  
  


_Her induction into the Knights of Seiros had been uninspiring._

_Shamir had stood at Rhea’s side, eyes darting about her surroundings with no particular focus. The vast architecture with towering walls. The carved marble depicting unknown idols. Inquisitive faces peering beneath shawls of white and red. It was a strange environment, and full of even stranger people. A group of armored soldiers knelt at her client’s feet. Some had their heads bowed to the tile, hands spread and eyes closed. It was an expression of fealty the Dagdan woman had not expected. She knew Rhea was important, that much was evident, but such a show of respect was surprising. This... Archbishop seemed to command as much respect as their Goddess._

_Dagda did not worship one person as the Old Father’s voice. Belief was not a constrained thing; meant to observed at the behest of another. It was free and without censure. The bond between man and God was a private matter; and though Shamir never claimed the same fervor as her peers, she did hold that fact to be true. How odd these Fόdlan people were; to hold a mortal woman to the same standard as divinity. She held her tongue, deciding not to air these opinions. This land was to be home for the time being. It would not be wise to invite strife upon herself._

_Her first year of service had been similarly unremarkable, full of suspicious stares and overbearing superiors. The senior Knights did not trust her, and they made this clear every moment she spent among them. That suited her fine. She was here to serve Rhea; not to squabble with petty men over potential treachery. Their confidence meant nothing to her. Shamir’s aloof nature did not go unnoticed, resulting in further estrangement from the rest of the order. Had she been a social creature, the isolation might have been too much to bear. As it was, she went about her life without mourning the loss. Friendship was not something she desired._

_Then Rhea brought a new face into the fold._

_The Archbishop had the Knights convene in the Great Hall. It was an ostentatious affair that was quite dissimilar from the ceremony held for her the year prior. A woman stood at attention, trading words with the Archbishop. As Rhea stepped back, the soldier turned to face Shamir. She was striking in the way few could manage. Lean and sharp-featured, with a smile that seemed more mocking than genuine. Despite her practiced apathy, Shamir tensed at the approach. The woman was tall and broad of shoulder. There was a weight to her presence, not unlike an animal before the inevitable leap._

_Catherine was her name, or so Rhea had introduced. The other woman merely nodded in greeting. Her eyes were splinters of ice; cold, unmoved. Even as her lips remained crooked into an easy grin, that stare never warmed. Suddenly, Shamir knew exactly what Catherine was. **הלביאה שמחייכת אל הכבשים.**_

_A predator waiting to bare its fangs._

_At this recognition, a feeling coiled deep in her gut. Not dislike, but more of an uneasy caution. The same any killer might have when facing another of its ilk. She often wondered, long after that moment had passed, if Catherine ever felt it too. This bone-deep aversion... had it inspired the other woman to behave more warily than she might have? In the days and countless shared missions afterward, that seemed to be the case._

_The woman was commanded to her side at Rhea’s demand. A new life with a new partner. Yet the cooperation between them was perfunctory; unsubstantial by its very nature. She did not trust this woman who wore a lion’s grin. Couldn’t, even if the ache of Solomon’s loss had not been fresh as it was. Time would prove her suspicions valid or false, but the few interactions they held alluded to the former._

_Catherine was brash and loud, so very different from the placid solemnity Shamir was accustomed to. The woman wore her reckless nature as if it were armor, shameless in every daring act. In battle, she was a whirlwind; quick and devastating. Out of it, she was a storm; declaring her presence with each deafening bellow. The new moniker she had been given suited her well. Thunder Catherine, indeed._

_But there were days which gave Shamir pause. Instances and conversations that seemed in contrast to the woman’s outward bravado. Once, the Dagdan woman had caught Catherine watching her from the Knight’s Hall entrance. She had not looked away, even when their eyes met. Catherine had smiled in her typical lackadaisical manner, but something lay beneath the outward expression. The woman stared with brazen focus, clawing against the door to every secret Shamir dared conceal._

_It became a frequent occurrence. Spotting her in the midst of training, catching a flash of golden hair at supper, hearing the echo of steps alongside her own. Had Shamir been less practiced, and far more naive, she would have been tempted to call it coincidence. However, she was quite wise to the woman’s surveillance. Shamir could not fault her for the suspicion. The archer’s past was a matter of public knowledge, as was as her nationality. She had not attempted to hide it, and tongues wagged with many a rumor. Several of the Knights still glowered from afar with thinly veiled distaste, their whispers thick with spite._

_A foreign deserter who sought sanctuary amid the Archbishop’s grace. A spy hired to collapse the Church from within. A coin-lusting heathen with little in the way of morals and less in loyalty. These were all common accusations Shamir had faced over her period of service. She wondered which Catherine believed, to stalk her shadow so fervently._

_In the end, Shamir paid no mind to her dogged observer. The Dagdan woman’s intentions were not malicious, in spite of the escalating rumor mill. She would not cower in fear of their censure. Whatever conclusions Catherine drew would not affect Shamir’s work, either. Nonetheless, these thoughts did not stop her hackles from rising as an icy gaze lingered._

_**רעב או שנאה.** Shamir could not say which she would prefer._

_It finally came to a head months after Catherine’s arrival. A minor lord’s son had been killed by a commoner girl. The dispute had spiraled into a bloody affair within another lord’s domain, requiring the Knights intervention. It sounded like a pile of Fόdlan nonsense to her; full of grotesquely elaborate titles and posturing. A typical situation for this conflicted land._

_From the context, it appeared the ממזר had tried to take liberty with the girl. In Dagda, this situation would have never required solving. If the boy was weak enough to be slain, his guilt was proven then and there. And if not, his life would still be forfeit. The deprivation of choice was not one to take lightly._

_But as this was Fόdlan, eternally inexplicable and perplexing, the lord needed to be appeased and the common folk to be silenced. So Rhea dispatched her and Catherine to settle the matter. Truthfully, Shamir had been wary of the situation. She did not want to assist the lord by right of creed, nor murder people with a genuine grievance. Gold was gold, but to go against a tenet she held sacred left a sour taste in her mouth._

_Of course, she would do as Rhea bid, even if she had to bite her tongue to accomplish such. There was nothing left to her now, save the strange employer she served. To Shamir’s surprise, she had not needed to do anything at all. Before the archer could act, Catherine handled the ordeal with deft poise._

_The lord, a hulking lout of a man, had been in the midst of storming the settlement with his soldiers. Similarly, a militia of surly villagers crowded his men en masse. They all laid down their arms at the Knights approach, whether in respect or fear was not certain. In Fόdlan there was little difference, Shamir had found. In the next breath, Catherine stepped in the midst of the opposing forces. Her lips curled in their typical smirk._

_“Lord Gerrick of lower Gideon. How far you’ve come to trouble the people of Acis. Galatea is quite the journey from your humble home.”_

_The lord rankled as she spoke, hands balling tight upon spear and shield._

_“This is not a matter for the Church to trouble itself over.” He had groused. “Least of all for you.”_

_“The Church interferes as necessary.” Catherine’s expression darkened, smile falling away. “Careful, My Lord. Any slight against me is a slight to Our Lady’s authority. Is that the impression you want to give?”_

_“I am merely collecting a blood debt.” The man gnashed his teeth, neck purpling with rage. “A commoner whore took my son from me. I demand satisfaction!”_

_“Your son had no right!” A man stepped forward from the crowd. “He was a craven beast who tried to force himself on my daughter!”_

_“That’s quite the charge.” Catherine’s attention shifted to him, fingers tapping casually along her arm. “And are there others who can back this claim?”_

_“Plenty.” Dark eyes stared boldly at the infuriated lord, wet with frustration and grief. “He made a show of it in the middle of the stables! Him and his servants. Ripped at her dress, knife to her throat. Had she not wrested the blade from him... If she hadn’t...”_

_The man trailed off miserably, wiping his face._

_“A likely story.” The lord scoffed, his disbelief evident. He raised his chin in a stubborn show of pride. “You can’t take the word of a wretch such as this. An opportunistic lot by my eye. It’s just as probable that his daughter tried to rob my boy, then murdered him as he struggled! Only deceitful mongrels lay here.”_

_Shamir’s hand twitched, yearning to pull her bow. She knew his type well. Spoiled seeds came from spoiled roots. But preventing further bloodshed was the goal of this journey, so she stayed her hand. Shamir observed as Catherine offered the lord an enigmatic look._

_“Yet you can’t know the truth of it, can you? Since you were in Gideon at the time, and with your son here in Acis the word of these mongrels, as you refer to them, is all you have.” The woman’s eyes narrowed in on the blood splattered across his breastplate. “Still you took it upon yourself to conduct your own version of justice. Within the confines of House Galatea’s land, no less. This is not only a blatant disrespect of a greater Lord’s territory, but a gross disregard for Church sanction.”_

_She paused, teeth bared in her familiar predatory grin._

_“You overstepped, Lord Gerrick. Lay down your arms and surrender yourself to face divine judgment.”_

_The lord drew back, paling to a grotesque shade of white._

_“You can’t be serious.” He spat, eyes darting madly between her and the other Knights. Shamir watched him take in their number and size it against his own. The man began to sweat profusely, coming to the same conclusion as she. He had brought only enough to beat back a small village of commoners, not to face the heavily armed force which he currently faced. His bloody campaign was finished. Sensing defeat, the man snarled in Catherine’s face._

_“Of course. How could I expect any less! What’s one more Lord under your heel? Cassandra, champion of the unwashed and down-trodden!”_

_**Cassandra?** Shamir frowned at the name. She looked to her partner, trying to gauge the woman’s reaction. Catherine didn’t glance at her in return. Instead, she stared at the lord; a flicker of ire burning away her prior composure._

_“You’re mistaken, Lord Gerrick.” Her tone deepened to something dark and unpleasant; like the drawling rumble before a thunderclap. “My name is Catherine, and I am a champion of nothing. Only the Goddess guides my hand. Should your death be Her will, so be it. Do not test me.”_

_“Lonato and Moreau would agree, I’m sure.” The lord snorted; bitterly and without humor. “Sending you? What a farce. But no matter... I cede to the Church. I’m not fool enough to rail against the Knights of Seiros.”_

_With a heave, he tossed his weapons to the ground. His head remained high, jaw stubbornly set, even as the Knights moved to seize him. The men he had brought relinquished their arms as well, though not without visible reluctance. Shamir stole a glance at the surrounding villagers. They looked appeased, for the most part. The man who had spoken before, the angered father, watched the proceedings quietly. He did not seem overjoyed, even as the lord was clapped in irons._

_The reaction was strange and somewhat unclear. What had the man wanted if not this outcome? Shamir pursed her lips, glancing in Catherine’s direction. If the woman noticed the covert scrutiny, she did not voice it. The look on her face was distant; focused on something away from the present moment. Then her features smoothed as blue eyes caught violet. A door was shut between them, locking tight with a firm click. The emotions roiling beneath that careless mask were not for her to see._

_It was the first hint of something beyond the front Catherine portrayed. Shamir was not one to pry after other people’s secrets. Yet she could not deny the slightest pang of curiosity. A rare occurrence on her part. It was that same feeling which guided her steps later that night._

_The Knights had settled in a large clearing, the clank of steel echoing through the area. Lord Gerrick was content to play the part of irascible prisoner, a noticeable cry for attention as she had ever seen. His guards were prominently soft-touched and treated him more as an unruly guest than criminal. It was curious how tolerant they were being, considering the transgressions he committed. On the various other missions which required imprisonment, they had never been this accommodating. Shamir made a note to ask Catherine about this behavior at a later date._

_The woman in question had made herself scarce as camp was set. After a brief search, Shamir finally found her by a murky pond. This area of Galatea was mostly marsh, and a recent rain had lent moisture to each step. Her feet sank into the earth as she approached, just another foreign experience in this mercurial environment._

_Catherine’s head was bowed as she reclined against the upturned roots of a great oak. She did not turn to face her new companion, preferring to keep her gaze upon the dark water. Shamir spotted a flask within the Knight’s hands. Calloused fingers scraped along the leather idly._

_“You handled that situation well.” Shamir broke the silence, letting her tone slide into genuine appreciation. Catherine snorted. The woman craned her head, flashing a sardonic smile._

_“So you **do** speak. I was starting to wonder.”_

_Shamir narrowed her eyes, biting her tongue. She had heard several similar comments before, though she admittedly had not expected it from Catherine. In an unexpected turn, the Knight’s smug expression immediately fled._

_“Sorry. That was callous of me.” Golden brows furrowed into a severe dip. “I’m not really in the best of moods. It’s been a piss-poor excuse for a day.”_

_“...It has.” Shamir crossed her arms, subtly wrapping her jacket tighter. The Fόdlan climate was very disparate from the arid heat of Dagda. The wet chill of the current season only exacerbated her discomfort. “I meant what I said. Rhea was right to send you.”_

_“Lady Rhea.” Catherine corrected reflexively, but her tone was not unkind. She exhaled in a long huff, running a hand along her neck. “You’re wrong, you know. There were better ways of dealing with Gerrick. I only did the bare minimum, and I have a feeling I’ll receive a firm scolding when we get back.”_

_“For what? To my understanding, you prevented a massacre.” Shamir frowned at the other woman. “That man was out for blood. You stopped him. Where is the harm in that?”_

_Catherine blinked up at her then, brows arched beneath her messy fringe. She chuckled, an incredulous thing composed of glinting teeth and curved lips._

_“You really aren’t from here. I thought having a year of service under your belt would make you wise to this nonsense.” She brought the flash up to her lips. “Tell me, what do you believe will happen to our lordly prisoner?”_

_“I imagine he’ll face a sentencing like every other criminal we apprehend. A judgment to fit the crime.”_

_“Maybe.” Catherine rolled her shoulders limply. “But most would call his anger justified. His son was murdered, after all.”_

_“His son was a raper of young women. One who behaved flagrantly and received a just fate.” Shamir shook her head. She could not understand where Catherine was heading with this line of thought. “You can’t think otherwise.”_

_“Had it been between two people of similar station, you’d be right. However, the crime was between a commoner girl and a noble boy. And that makes this an entirely different beast altogether.” Catherine kicked a nearby rock into the muddled pond. It broke the top layer of green-black scum with a vicious swirl. “She killed a person of high breeding, and so it is considered murder.”_

_“That’s...” Shamir trailed, disgust pooling in her chest. It was a trial to keep her expression impassive. The more time she spent in Fόdlan, the less she enjoyed. “I don’t understand your ways. A life is a life.”_

_“A fair opinion, but it’s just the way it is.” Catherine’s mouth twitched. “I’m surprised; I hadn’t expected a former mercenary to trouble herself over something like this. I thought coin was the crux of your morality, and nothing else.”_

_“Coin buys allegiance, not thoughts or opinions. Those are my own.”_

_“Heh. My mistake.”_

_Shamir watched the Knight warily as she stood. Catherine stretched, tall silhouette lit by moonlight. Long-limbed and muscular, her frame brought to mind the various big cats which prowled the Dagdan wilderness. She felt strangely off-kilter as the woman’s sharp eyes searched her own._

_“Under Fόdlan law, Lord Gerrick had every right to seek vengeance,” Catherine began to explain. “Had the boy been killed with lower Gideon, this situation would be rather cut and dry. The girl would be slain, or imprisoned at best, and her father could say nothing. Since this was House Galatea’s territory, Gerrick should have requested permission to act from the Church.”_

_“Why would that be needed?” Shamir asked slowly. It was difficult sorting through the new information, if only because her upbringing held little in the way of similarity. Her country was not ruled so firmly by a central religious head, or a convoluted class structure. The various Princes which ruled the city-states were still held accountable for their actions. That Fόdlan was so different politically perplexed her._

_Truthfully, she should have sought clarification on Fόdlan politics sooner; but lack of interest, and mutual dislike within the ranks, kept her from doing so. To the other woman’s credit, Catherine remained patient._

_“Faerghus is without a King.” A shadow passed over her eyes, darkening the iris. Much as a cloud might obscure the sky from view. “For now, at least. The Duke of Itha serves as regent, but his rule is more for show than true. The Kingdom presently defers all matters of state to the Archbishop, including governance of its lords. If Gerrick hadn’t acted so hastily the outcome today would have been quite different.”_

_Catherine paused for a time. Her smile returned; wry and edged with spite._

_“He overreached, but it doesn’t matter. The man is devout and tied to countless Houses through marriage. He’ll receive some sort of warning before being sent on his way. The people of Acis will grumble for a time, but Lord Galatea will issue a formal statement and soon the matter will be forgotten. That poor girl will live her life, and the boy who started this mess will rot. As good an outcome as any.”_

_She turned to face the water._

_“As for Gerrick, he has three other sons to coddle into adulthood; so no great loss was had. But my conduct will undoubtedly be mentioned. I shouldn’t have goaded him the way I did. That isn’t any way for a Knight of Seiros to act.”_

_“You were neither cruel or aggressive.” Shamir took a step closer, letting their arms brush at the elbow. “I’ll vouch for that, should the topic be raised.”_

_“That so?” Catherine gave a breathy laugh. She stared at the shorter woman with thinly-veiled amusement. “Is this an attempt at chivalry, Lady Nevrand?”_

_“Shamir. I don’t hold claim to any pompous titles you Fόdlan people do.”_

_“Lady Shamir.” Catherine bobbed her head obnoxiously. “I can work with that.”_

_Then, in a gesture Shamir would ponder for years, the fair woman reached out her flask. She smiled, and suddenly it was not the leonine gnash of teeth that usually graced her face. Rather, it was achingly sincere; paired with glinting sapphire._

_“Shall we seal this partnership with a toast?”_

_Shamir looked at her hand, hesitating. She reached for the flask carefully, fingers brushing against leather and warm skin. Something passed through her at the touch; an instinctive knowledge that altered and moved her from within. Like the ground shifting beneath muddied heel, or the molten strike of hammer and anvil._

_In her weaker moments, when the days passed with easy banter and flowing drink, she presumed to call this friendship. It was not enough to fill the void Solomon had left. Yet it was... something. New and soft; without the pain of the past. For the first time in a series of empty months, a flicker of life illuminated the dark._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Of all the unalterable facts of this world, the physicality of an arrow draw was the most comforting. There weren’t any deceptions to be had. Nothing treacherous lay within the steady pull of bow and string. A hunter does not feign innocence as wood slides upon their glove, arrow ready to be loosed. The bond between predator and prey was simple, and Shamir took solace in it. Her arrow flew, slicing through the air. It sank quietly into the flesh of a rabbit. The animal twitched once before falling still.

She let her arms fall. The hunt had ended, and the hunger which gnawed at her bones would be soothed. If only the rest of life’s troubles could be so easily solved. Shamir felt her lips thin at the thought. It had been hard to leave Catherine in that cave. Even if was only to search for game, she had not wanted to let the woman out of her sight. She had left her once, and here was the result. Catherine, so strong and steadfast. Only now she was injured, pained, and lost within her own turmoil. There was also her frame of mind to consider.

Grief was an emotion Shamir was well acquainted with. It had been her constant companion; loathsome and heavy like a pall upon her heart. Knit from every loss she had ever suffered, and only growing with time’s cruel passing. She knew its face as if it were her own. So it was easy to recognize the same agony within her partner. It was heard between each hissed word; that which glittered darkly in the shadow of Catherine’s eyes. Yet there was more, wasn’t there? In that last demand for her to leave, another feeling echoed behind the sorrow. A black promise of hate and bloodshed.

Shamir curled her fingers around the rabbit’s ears. She would need to tread carefully. The woman was gravely wounded, but that meant very little. Catherine was infamously stubborn; prone to rash decisions and impulsive whimsy. If Shamir didn’t want her running off into the night, some measures would need to be taken. She had not come this far only to let the woman fall upon an imperial sword.

With a plan beginning to take shape, Shamir began to make the journey back. The sun had just started to retreat over the horizon, and the sky was cast in a patterned striation of dusky hues. Thankfully, the day had proven cloudless; not a hint of rain to be seen. Fortune favored them, for now. If the next week remained pleasant, perhaps they could reach Conand before any scouts passed their way. The Emperor was victorious, but that girl was not the sort to rest on her laurels. The Church would be scoured from existence, and any who fled Fhirdiad’s fall would inevitably meet their end.

The only way out lay across the sea. From Conand Bay and onto the Almyran shore. Then, if their luck held, they could charter passage to Dagda. Shamir stepped faster, grip tightening on her bow. This was the only path forward; Fόdlan and its people be damned. The Empire could feast upon the ashen carcass of this country as it pleased. Catherine would understand, eventually.

_I’ll not leave her again. Even if I have to drag her across the world._

Of course, as is the nature of best-laid plans, problems tended to arise. Namely, when a certain foolish Knight decided to vanish entirely. Shamir grit her teeth as she peered into the vacant cavern. Blood and loose bandages lay where the woman once was, but Catherine was conspicuously absent. Anger and panic surged within her breast.

“האידיוט הפזיז הזה.” Shamir spat, biting out the words. She dropped her spoils and bent to the earth. A trail of blood led outside the cave, lacking in warmth but not congealed. Catherine would not be far. She followed the crimson path, noting its trajectory from the cave mouth to the clearing she had set for camp. She stilled, fearing the horse she had taken would no longer be there. Fortunately, the animal was gnawing idly on blades of grass. Her eyes narrowed upon the smear of red painting the earth below its hooves.

The trail led away towards a light incline, facing towards the Fraldarius Wood. Her eyes followed raptly, before resting upon bedraggled wheat. There, sitting against a towering elm, was Catherine. The sight kindled a faded memory. One of a boggy night’s conversation, and the taste of bitter ale. How many years lay between that moment and this? Just as she did all those long years ago, Shamir walked to her side.

“You shouldn’t have left.” She struggled to keep her voice even. Lingering frustration colored her words all the same. If Catherine heard, she did not react. The woman was watching the sun creep below the treeline. Her jaw noticeably flexed with agitation, eyes hard as the stone they resembled.

“That wound needs treatment, more than I can provide.” Shamir let her gaze fall pointedly to Catherine’s leg. “Reopening that gash because you feel the need to walk around is–”

“Moronic?” The other woman broke her silence, mouth curved into a tight smirk. Shamir looked at her for a time.

“I was going to say irresponsible.” She inhaled steadily, forcing away her prior annoyance. “You’re not in any position to be moving around as you are. Unless bleeding out is the goal.”

“A quick, undignified end. Might be fitting.” Catherine chuckled. It sounded strained, however; taut as a noose pull. The imagery was chilling, and Shamir had to avert her eyes. She stared intently at the heavens.

“Don’t joke.” She tried to swallow away her unease. “Not now.”

“My apologies.”

Shamir heard the woman move, picking up something from the ground. She glanced back upon hearing the rap of knuckles upon wood. Catherine was holding a long branch in the air, seemingly for her inspection.

“Found this by the cave. I figured it’s better than having you lug me around everywhere.” She looked to the side, flashing a smile. Yet her expression did not lighten. The foreboding ice in her stare was reminiscent of another time and place. The reminder was bitter.

“And ripped your stitches too, it seems,” Shamir replied evenly. “Was that before or after you tried to steal the horse?”

“Both.” Catherine’s smile twisted into a sour glower. She had the good grace to look ashamed for a moment, but it passed quickly. “There were countless horses in Fhirdiad, and you had to choose the most confrontational nag of the bunch. Typical Shamir. You always have to make things difficult.”

“How bad is it?” Shamir asked, avoiding the jibe. Childish insults were a ploy Catherine used to great effect. She wouldn’t let herself be distracted by them now. Her partner just looked up, lips pursed.

“The wound or my pride?”

Shamir glared back silently. Catherine sobered and balled a hand atop her thigh.

“It took all I had to stumble over here.” The woman bowed her head, grimacing. “Damn thing feels like it's on fire. As if the flesh is being peeled off the bone. I can hardly stand without wanting to tear my leg off.”

“We’ll find a healer soon.” Shamir softened her tone, letting sympathy bleed through. She knelt before her partner, unraveling a fresh bundle of bandages. “We just need to reach Conand, maybe stop in Port Toraigh. The city has a large sickbay, so there should be a wealth of bishops to choose from.”

“Toraigh?” Catherine frowned, brow quirking. “Why go that far? Conand has recovered admirably in recent years, but I would hardly consider the region safe. Fraldarius would be closer.”

“The Empire is securing the regions closest to Fhirdiad. The heir of Fraldarius is also allied with the Emperor, so resting there would be unwise.” The Dagdan woman let the explanation fall easily, hoping her partner would not see through it. She could not afford Catherine to discover the truth. Not yet. “They won’t spend their energy skulking about Conand. It’s too poor in the way of resources, and of little military value. You can recover there in safety.”

“...The Empire.” Catherine’s expression clouded. The woman turned away; pained. “It doesn’t feel right. Letting them root around the Kingdom’s corpse. Edelgard, the murderous _whore_, roaming free and without a care. How is that right?”

“There’s nothing to be done, Catherine. The Emperor won.”

“You’re wrong.” The Knight’s head jerked up, teeth bared in a feral bite. “She’ll face judgment someday. By the hand of the Goddess or mine. I _swear_ it.”

Shamir said nothing. What remark could she possibly make in response? The burning hatred in Catherine’s heart was twisted with grief. She would not listen to reason or criticism. So Shamir fished out a needle and thread, tending to the bleeding wound. Catherine barely twitched as she worked, mind lost to whatever plans the woman held.

They did not speak of the harsh words traded just hours prior. Their relationship worked best when both feigned ignorance to conflict. Even still, Shamir knew this pattern could not hold. Something would give, and she could only hope the fallout would not tear them apart irrevocably.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The journey to Conand was not geographically long, but their progress was slow all the same. Catherine’s leg demanded constant care, and with the few supplies they had, it was difficult to maintain. Privately, Shamir worried over the colors blooming beneath ruined skin. The wound was a mottled tapestry of plum-stained flesh, and the blood which flowed seemed almost sluggish to pour.

No amount of poultice or potions would mend the gaping lacerations. Each attempt seemed more ineffectual than the last. She never revealed her concerns to the other woman. Healing had never been her realm of knowledge, and she did not wish to worry Catherine needlessly. But anxiety blossomed and kept, stealing away her confidence.

As for Catherine, the woman had been infuriatingly quiet. Once, she would have spit fire and yelled over the slightest of injuries. Shamir would roll her eyes at the theatrics, and mock her weakness. Then the Knight would laugh before dropping the act entirely. It was a routine; familiar as they both were with each other.

There was only tension between them now — composed of words spoken in anger, and the dire situation they found themselves in. As thread repeatedly dove into flesh, Catherine grit her teeth in agony. Yet not a word of complaint or pain escaped her. Presently, Shamir would have been content listening to Catherine’s gripes. The immense silence was oppressive.

Four days passed in this manner, holding tightly until they reached the Port of Toraigh. As they came upon the small coastal city, Shamir relaxed. The night before had been trying, marked with an increasing surliness in Catherine’s disposition. She had been insufferable the night before, refusing to let Shamir assist in any way.

_“__I can wrap this myself,"_ Catherine had insisted, pulling away from the shorter woman’s touch. Her hand had trembled slightly as she unfurled the fresh cloth. Shamir left her alone after that, unwilling to quarrel over inconsequential details. She would not press her. Stubborn fool that Catherine was, her partner would only take the offer as a slight to her independence. To that end, it was a great relief to finally be at their destination.

The Port of Toraigh was not a bustling settlement, and simply riding into the outskirts would reveal why. It lay sequestered along the rocky coastline of Conand, the churning sea thrashing with perpetual scorn. The inlet was compact, jagged as a shark’s maw, and cliffs surrounded the hillside the city rested on.

Supposedly, the port had been manually carved and smoothed to provide a military vantage point as Conand Bay held convenient access to both Almyra and Sreng. With Toraigh holding claim to the largest peak along that shore, it made a certain amount of sense to settle the region. A great, towering lighthouse lent evidence to this tale, although the port no longer operated in a military capacity.

Ever since the fall of its governing House, Conand was little more than glorified bandit country. A nasty place to wander into, but also the perfect place to disappear. Toraigh was no different. Due to the nature of the city’s structure, the streets were narrow and winding. Hard to navigate, and difficult not to draw attention within.

The two women drew more than a few curious onlookers, heads swiveling to stare as they passed. Shamir watched as a man stopped to look appreciatively, though not for them. His eyes were settled upon the flank of her mount. The horse was a thoroughbred of some prodigious pedigree, just as all the animals were in the King’s stables. Even with its advanced age, anyone could tell its good breeding by sight alone.

She cursed her lack of forethought. Already, their attempt at being inconspicuous was failing miserably. If they didn’t want the Empire nipping their heels, they needed to think smarter. Shamir was pulled from her thoughts as she felt Catherine sway in the saddle. She looked back in worry.

“Catherine, are you…?”

Blue eyes blinked back dully; a curious glaze to them. Then the other woman shook her head as if to clear it.

“I’m fine.” A fine sheen of sweat was upon Catherine’s brow. The Knight wiped it away with an agitated hand. “Just the heat. Sick-house isn’t far from here, right?”

“It should be around the next corner.” Shamir watched her with speculation, taking in the pale of her cheeks. The woman’s skin was blanched to an unsightly grey. Her hands twisted tight on the reins. “Do you need to stop? I can get you some water if–”

“Playing nursemaid isn’t exactly a good look for you.” Catherine chuckled hoarsely. “Just get me to the damn healer. I can hold on until then.”

“Fine.” Shamir faced forward, straightening her back. “Just don’t fall off and break your neck. I would rather not have a corpse on my hands.”

“I’m not so weak, or clumsy for that matter,” Catherine growled out, offended. Shamir restrained herself from issuing a cutting remark. Instead, she ignored her and spurred the horse onward. The port sick-house was nestled within the eastern corner of the city. A rather bland structure with shale colored walls, it blended easily among the other buildings. Covert and out of the way; Shamir could not have asked for a better location. Catherine would be safe here.

The Dagdan woman dropped down then reached up to help her partner do the same. Catherine batted away her hands, stumbling to the dirt with a shaky breath. Shamir observed as more perspiration beaded along her face and throat.

“You should hurry inside.” The archer slipped her gaze down to the mass of burgundy-soaked wraps. Catherine was leaning heavily upon the improvised crunch, knees shaking with effort. “Call for the Head Bishop. You know as well as I that this won’t be solved with a novice’s hand.”

“Ha... You’re actually going to let me out of your sight? And here I thought I had garnered a second mother.” Catherine smiled, but it was faint; shaky. “The hell are you off to anyway?”

“The market. We’re going to need supplies and I need to find a buyer for this horse.” Shamir looked at the animal, patting the mare’s belly in gratitude. “After, I’ll speak to the harbormaster–”

“What?”

Catherine’s eyes narrowed sharply. Her wan complexion filled with the faintest trace of color.

“Why would you be speaking to the harbormaster?” The woman evened her posture, suspicion dawning like the sun. “Shamir, what are you planning to do exactly?”

“Only what is necessary.” Shamir looked away, choosing to stare at the distant dockside. Catherine was not appeased.

“Necessary?” The woman began to breathe hard, clutching her cane like a lifeline. Chapped lips curled into a fierce sneer. “This is why you wanted to come to Toraigh. Not for me, but for _you_. You want to buy passage out of Fόdlan, and sail away into the sunset. Am I right?”

“It isn’t just for me, Catherine.” Shamir dared to meet her eyes. The sky blue she had grown to love had darkened with misery. A storm brewed within, one she did not know how to navigate. She swallowed hard and leaned in. “You have to see it, just as I do. We can’t stay here. If we tried it would only be a matter of time before the Empire finds us.”

“So you’re going to run away. Just as you always do.” Catherine retreated in disgust. “I should have known this is what you were planning. Well go on, then. _Leave_. I’ll not be going with you.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Shamir set her jaw, unwilling to concede. She clutched at Catherine by the front of her shirt. The touch was more pleading than aggressive, but there was no time to consider that further. She looked up into her partner’s hard gaze. “Even when that wound heals, do you really think you can topple the Empire alone? And what of Edelgard and her followers? This isn’t a fight you can win.”

“I don’t need victory. And I don't need to live either.” Catherine’s head bowed. Her nose brushed against Shamir’s cheek, an act that should have been intimate yet was ruined by vicious words. “All I need is to kill them. I’ll not rest until the Emperor and her dog lay at my feet.”

“Why? To avenge a woman who doesn’t deserve it?” Shamir grabbed the woman’s face with both hands. “Rhea is gone, Catherine. The Church, Faerghus, Thunderbrand... All of it. Come with me. _Stay_ with me. Live the life you cast aside in favor of divine service. Your goddess would understand.”

“I’m getting tired of this argument.” Catherine pushed her away, though it lacked much of her usual strength. She fumbled against her cane, shaking her head again. “You don’t know what I sacrificed for this life. I can’t walk away from duty simply because you demand it of me.”

“I didn’t save you so you could toss this chance away!” For the first time in years, Shamir found herself yelling. It was shrill, hoarse with everything she never dared speak. “You lived! Do you know what a gift that is? The gods, with all their capriciousness, found favor with you. Yet you’re willing to spit in their face?!”

“I know only the Goddess.” The woman chest rose, prideful even whilst suffering. A Knight of Seiros until the last. Shamir wanted to slap that look off her. She took a deep pull of air and held it.

“So you will remain on this path, despite this opportunity you’ve been given.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me, Shamir,” Catherine replied; swift and sharp as any sword slice. Shamir felt the blow keenly. Her heart ached, despair wiping everything else away.

“No. You didn’t.” She crossed her arms defensively, fingers curling along the sleeves. This had been pointless from the start. Shamir had always known the Knight would never run. She knew, and had still hoped for otherwise. Catherine, laughing with the Dagdan sun in her hair. Free at last to be more than her station allowed. Free to _love_.

Such a perfect dream would never come to be. Shamir cleared her expression, locking away the bitter disappointment. She opened her mouth, to argue or possibly relent, but stilled as Catherine fell to her knees. The woman was heaving, frame quaking with the effort. Alarmed, Shamir flew to her side.

“I’m fine... Just...” Catherine attempted to shove her away once more, but her arms were shaking far too much. She tilted abruptly, falling against Shamir. Something was terribly wrong with her. Perhaps long before they entered the city. _Not that this bull-headed idiot would ever admit it. _Shamir propped her partner up, slinging both arms around her waist.

“You’re not. We need to see the healer. _Now_.” The Dagdan woman pushed away her previous turmoil. She needed to concentrate on the task before her, namely keeping her partner alive. Catherine only groaned, consciousness clearly fading.

The next series of moments were a blur of sensation and emotion.

Shamir had burst through the doors, shouting to anyone who may listen. A group of plain-cloaked people jumped as her entrance. They stared at her, eyes wide, before they seemed to notice the ailing woman in her arms. She vaguely remembered demanding to see the Head Bishop, voice strained as she carried Catherine further in. A matronly woman with iron-gray hair approached. Her lips pursed and as she ushered for them to follow. From there, nothing substantial remained.

The shivering lurch of Catherine’s chest. Placing the woman down gently upon cotton sheets. Wrinkled hands aglow with the warm pulse of magic. Sternly whispered commands from a reed-thin mouth. Catherine’s face, twisted with agony as her leg was revealed. Shamir dimly recalled pulling the woman’s armor free, only to drop it heavily upon the wood boards. Then she stood, terrified and guilty, as the bishop stopped moving and turned towards her. Words were passed, echoing distantly in her ears.

_Black rot. Blood poisoning._ What were these things? Frustration lanced through her. If she only knew the Dagdan equivalent... Shamir saw the healer stare at her apologetically. Suddenly, she knew exactly what it might mean.

_“__No,” _She insisted in return. “No.”

The older woman frowned, but she would not have it. Catherine would not die. She _couldn’t_.

“Save her.” Shamir bowed, deep as she could manage. Something she had sparsely done, even for Rhea. “Please.”

The Bishop considered her for a time, dark eyes measuring. Then she nodded faintly.

“I’ll do what I can. But the leg...” Her pause was weighted with implication. “The rot is a terrible and insidious thing. I can cut away the blackened flesh, perhaps saving the limb. But I cannot guarantee anything.”

“Do what you must. It doesn’t matter.” She turned her head to look at her partner. Catherine was breathing fast, features pinched with unbearable pain. Desperation burned; a wildfire blazing in her chest. “הייתי נותן הכל כדי להציל אותה."

“I’m not sure I understood all that.” The healer’s brows arched high, but her eyes remained kind. “Very well. I’ll do what needs to be done. However, I don’t advise staying. The process will be... unpleasant.”

Shamir tore her eyes away, willing her pulse to calm. Silently, she tilted her head in acknowledgment. With that parting gesture, the Dagdan woman turned on her heel and exited the room. The sound of metal being drawn followed her steps. As the door shut firmly, Shamir placed her back against the frame. She closed her eyes, mouth covered with a tremulous hand.

It began, then. Screams, long and pitched, reverberated off the walls. An even more gruesome noise lay just beneath; wet and hollow like a wolf feasting upon offal. It was unbearable. Torture in its purest form. Shamir strode away, unwilling to listen any longer. She did not wish to be here; not when the future was still so uncertain. If Catherine perished in these halls, she would never forgive herself.

It was her own actions that caused this. If Shamir had paid more attention, or taken them to Fraldarius instead, this wouldn’t have happened. If she had been more insistent on reaching Conand, or learned in the magic arts herself, surely she could have prevented this. Yet none of that had been true, and it was very likely that Catherine would lose her life.

It had been the same for Solomon, hadn’t it? She had chosen to run and leave him behind. His command, but she did not have to obey. They could have found a way together.

Shamir rubbed her eyes, feeling them sting. Decision. Choice. Forks in the varied roads of life. Dagda held these concepts sacred, and when the wrong path is taken there is only one to blame. Another loss by her hand. Another death because of passivity and assumption. There had been a reason she relinquished her will to a mercenary life. Shamir raised her head and walked into the streets.

Dark clouds hovered overhead. The air stifled, humid and cloying. The makings of a storm. Shamir walked onward, even as the rain began to fall. There was only one choice left to her now. She just prayed it would be enough.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_The turning point between camaraderie and love is not often defined. It is a silent change, like stones along a river bed smoothed by the current. It is gradual and incremental. Steps you take, but can only see the direction of in hindsight. There had been so many moments already that could have sparked into more._

_But if she had to choose one as the start, it might have been on a brisk autumn night. Two years after her service began._

_They had been sent to quell an uprising in the west, near the great Lake Teutates and the lands of House Rowe. The Western Church was stirring dissent among the common folk. Two competing factions following the same god. A familiar concept, but the intense spite they held for each other was not._

_Shamir mentioned as much when they settled down for the day. Catherine had seemed surprised, pausing in the midst of tending their fire. Then blue eyes lidded, and bemusement replaced the momentary shock._

_“It’s not that strange, honestly. The Central Church follows the Archbishop. The Western Church claims that a figurehead isn’t needed.” Catherine rubbed her jaw, thinking. “Actually, that’s a bit too generous. I should say that the Western Church denounces Lady Rhea as a charlatan who ‘perverts’ the teaching of Seiros. In other words, they’re completely mad.”_

_“That’s just your perspective as a member of the Central Church.” Shamir pointed out, if a tad too bluntly. Catherine winced, but she did not scold her. She was surprisingly tolerant, though it might have only been in consideration of her partner’s foreign heritage. The woman shrugged her shoulders._

_“Could be. But they don’t help themselves by stirring the pot as they do.” An agitated huff hit the air in a visible cloud. “They rile the common people to do their bidding. As long as they do not openly spill blood, they know Lady Rhea cannot act against them. Crafty bastards.”_

_“So it is not ideology, but the leader they take issue with.” Shamir brought her legs up, wrapping arms around them. The fire was warm, but the air was oppressively chilled. Sometimes, it seemed as if she would never be warm again. Fόdlan; forever inhospitable and strange. “I can’t say I understand. My homeland does not have anything like your Archbishop.”_

_“That right?” Catherine’s head lifted. Her gaze was bright with interest. “You know, it occurs to me that you never talk about Dagda. Nor what you believe.”_

_“There’s not much to say.” Shamir stared into the fire, watching the dance of ember and smoke. Catherine laughed then, disbelief coloring every lilting note._

_“Liar. It’s a completely different country. I’m not stupid enough to think everyone worships the Goddess.” The Knight flashed a grin, but there was something considering in her eyes. Catherine could be incredibly perceptive, even if she hid it well under her waggish demeanor. “You can tell me. I’m not so insecure in my faith that I’ll scream at you for having a different opinion.”_

_“It’s happened before.” Shamir relayed simply. She watched as Catherine's smile faded. “When I first joined, some would feign interest. They would ask about my faith and my home.”_

_“What happened?”_

_She spread out her fingers, watching as the firelight cast shadows along her skin._

_“I told them. But it soon became clear that sating curiosity was not their intent.” Her hand closed into a fist. “Every answer I gave would be countered; made to seem less than their own. They did not wish to truly know, only to refute.”_

_“I can believe that.” Catherine looked at her askance. “But I hope you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”_

_“Hmm. I thought you’d try and defend your fellow knights.”_

_“Normally, I would.” The taller woman smirked playfully, flames bathing her features in a warm glow. “But there’s a difference between an honest mistake, and just being a prick.”_

_Despite herself, Shamir found her mouth curving upward. Like a hawk, Catherine immediately latched onto this._

_“Oho! Is that a smile, Lady Shamir? Have I finally done the impossible?”_

_“You’re seeing things.” The Dagdan woman cleared her throat and brought cold fingers up to her lips. She blew air between them; a facade of seeking warmth. “I can tell you... if that’s what you wish.”_

_“I would.” Catherine returned softly. It was a disarmingly earnest and simple statement. For a moment, Shamir just looked at her. Then she rest her chin along her forearms, hiding another smile._

_“I suppose I could start with our beliefs.” Shamir furrowed her brow, wondering how much, or how little, to mention. “Dagda is not just the name of our country. It is the name of the Old Father, He who forged the world upon His anvil.”_

_“Like a smith?”_

_“Yes. Yet on a much grander scale.” Her thoughts turned inward, recalling all that she had been told. All that she had clung to so fiercely once upon a time. “His were the first fires. He molded everything underneath hammer and flame, and quenched within the waters you call the ocean. Once the world was forged, He gave it life with smaller creations. The first of His children, who many also worship.”_

_“That’s very different.” Catherine hummed, appearing to mull the story over. Shamir eyed her, looking for any sign of derision. Seeing none, she continued; voice gathering strength._

_“From sun to moon, He made all that would give the world life. Then He forged His final piece. Humanity, and all the animals who would provide food and craft. From there, His task was done. So He stepped back and marveled over what He had accomplished.” Shamir changed her attention back to the fire. “So enamored was He, that the Old Father could not bear to alter it further. With one last gift, Dagda laid down His hammer and now watches eternally from above.”_

_“What was the gift?”_

_“The gift of Will, and the power to choose,” Shamir revealed. She glanced over at the Knight, taking in her inquisitive stare. “In Dagda, my country, it is not a simple belief. This gift provides a philosophy. A way of living. The Old Father, our first father, wanted to see what we would do with this gift. It is why we hold choice sacred. For He will not intervene, and will only watch.”_

_Ghosts lingered and prodded at her memory._

_“To relinquish that gift is to cast away everything that makes you Dagdan. It is spitting in the Old Father’s eye, and only tragedy awaits those who cannot decide.”_

_“That’s a bit difficult to wrap my head around.” Catherine leaned back, chuckling with faint unease. “It’s not always enough to decide. How can you know what’s right? What if the wrong choice is made in haste?”_

_“He does not punish without need, just as He does not intervene. His children may do as they wish, but not Dagda. Only when one turns away from Will, does He act. I find it strange how often your goddess meddles according to your faith.” Shamir pushed back a lock of hair, wrapping it behind her ear. “Even should we wish for His intervention, to ask would invite disaster.”_

_“Really? Why?”_

_“Because you are casting aside your own will in favor of His. It is not what He wants from us. There is also a certain audacity, in asking for divine favor." Shamir paused, hesitating over whether to mention her thoughts. But Catherine had been understanding, and she deserved some measure of honesty. “When I heard of the Goddess and the way your Church forces belief on others, I was enraged. To us, faith must be accepted willingly.”_

_She bowed her head, biting her lip._

_“I thought of Fόdlan as a savage land, filled with savage people. But I was wrong, mostly. There is... good here, even if your customs still confound me. I cannot say I accept your Goddess, or how the Church earns subservience. However, this is your way of life and it would be hypocritical of me to decry that.”_

_Catherine was silent for a long while. Whether in offense or reflection, was not certain. Then an amused snort hit the air, and all tension evaporated._

_“I think that was the most you’ve said in our entire time together.” The other woman tossed a few twigs into the fire, before quirking her brow playfully. “You get this interesting look on your face when you’re explaining something. All intense and brooding. It’s adorable.”_

_“You had asked.” Shamir blinked at her, a little defensive. “Should I stick to one syllable answers to please you?”_

_“No.” Catherine scooted closer. Their knees brushed, and Shamir startled at the touch. “I enjoy hearing you speak. It’s the same for me, concerning Dagda. I thought you were all a bunch of godless heathens, but that’s been proven false. All because of you.”_

_Shamir felt her lips tighten into a bloodless line, caught between annoyance and begrudging comfort. She was glad that her partner seemed to accept her, as a friend might. Catherine turned to the fire, features relaxed and calm. Shamir studied her, taking in the graceful curve of sharp jaw and the noble bow of pink lips. The downy sweep of Catherine's hair glistened under beams of light, contrasting with the blue of her eyes. She was, to Shamir’s quiet realization, rather beautiful._

_A part of her, the one which wanted to push such fanciful notions from her head, insisted it was only a trick of the waning eve. The rest of her knew the truth. Given enough time, and enough patience…_

_She could love her._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The cathedral of Port Toraigh was a small and ramshackle thing. Battered constantly by sea-salt and wind, the paint which once had been a sparkling pearl was now stripped to wood. An iron weather-vane spun ominously upon approach; the rusted visage of Seiros’ crest. Shamir had never thought to enter such a place of her own volition. She had skirted the towering walls of the monastery cathedral quite effectively in those distant days. So it was with an odd sort of dissonance that she entered.

It was conspicuously barren, free of Church officials or kneeling supplicants. The building was dim, only lit by the natural light of the sun. A few boards were missing from the ceiling; testament to the cathedral’s neglect. It was a compact room and furnished sparsely. A faded tapestry of the Goddess decorated the back wall, her hands outstretched. The deity's head, crowned with lilies, arched over the podium where the devout might kneel in prayer.

Shamir moved to it, observing the frayed fabric where the goddess’ face should be.

“I don’t know if you can hear me. I can’t say I believe you will, or if you even exist for that matter.” She bent to her knees; jaw clenched. “But I have to try. Despite everything, she served you faithfully. Does that not deserve your attention? Does she?”

The creak of wood and wind filled the silence.

“Catherine needs you. She’s on her death bed, ailing because she heeded your call. She bled for you, and the world you supposedly protect. Is this not enough? Or do you need more proof of her devotion?”

Shamir grit her teeth, nails digging into cloth and thigh.

“She cannot ask this of you, so I will. Help her. If you can do anything, for anyone, help _her_. Please... I beg of you. בבקשה תקשיב...”

Both languages fell together in a mixed plea. She stopped, frustrated by the lapse.

“...I shouldn’t be here, asking this of a goddess I don’t worship. I don’t know your face. I have never felt your touch. You mean nothing to me, nor I to you. If anything, I should-”

Shamir took a shuddering breath. Then, gathering herself, she bent low. Her hands laid flat upon the ground. Unbidden, she changed to her native tongue entirely.

_“Forgive me. They taught us never to ask anything of You and Your Kin. You are not a guide, only a Father. And I have long since abandoned the gift You gave me.”_

When the village well ran to dust, when her mother succumbed to illness, when Solomon fell into the grave... Shamir had never dared beseech Him. But she would now. For her.

_“Whatever price You exact, I will pay it. I will not pretend that I deserve this chance. I will not say she does, either.” _Her eyes closed tight._ “She has done terrible things. Yet always at the behest of others. She did the same as I, throwing her Will aside. All for the sake of her god. But it isn’t truly the same. Just as I do not know her goddess, she does not know You. So how could she know what it was she gave away?”_

She waited, though not for a response. Her mouth was painfully dry, throat lodged with something undefinable.

_“Dagda... Father, please. If nothing else, give her the chance to decide her own fate. I tried to take it from her, to steal away her choice for my own selfishness, but it was wrong of me. If this illness is my punishment, please have mercy. Let her live. Let her prove she is worthy of life.”_

Shamir looked up, past the broken roof, and into the sky. It was still thickly clouded, but the rain had slowed to a manageable drizzle. Nothing came next. No bird passing across her vision. No bell tolling in poignant cue. Nothing. She tried not to be disappointed and climbed to her feet. Only time would tell whether her prayer had been heard. Good or ill, the deed had been done. The Dagdan woman turned her back to the tapestry, feeling the goddess’ flat stare on her nape.

Then Shamir made her way back to the sick-house. It was a dreary journey, and her feet dragged unpleasantly through mud and puddle. The streets were empty now, lending to the silence she felt in her heart. As if the life had been drained from the city; just like her. Eventually, she returned to the same drab complex which housed her partner.

The bishops who still roamed the halls eyed her warily, but she paid them little mind. They were nothing more than background to her. A sea of inconsequential faces. Shamir steeled herself upon approaching Catherine’s room. The archer did not know what she would find. If the other woman was gone…

No. She couldn’t bear to even think of it.

Shamir pushed open the door. She took in the still figure lying under roughly woven sheets. Dried blood marked the lower half, but it was not deeply drenched. Catherine’s chest was rising evenly, long fringe stirring with each breath.

_She was..._

Shamir took a shuddering inhale, relief suffusing her in a wave. It flooded her chest, heart racing anew. Though it did not beat with terror or grief as she had expected; but with joy. She went to Catherine’s side, bending to cup the woman’s face. Heated and flushed. Damp with sweat, but alive.

“It was touch and go, for a time.”

The Dagdan woman blinked before casting her eyes to the door. The Head Bishop was wiping hands with a towel. She smiled, lined features softening with the expression.

“I had to cut away the dead flesh. A large amount needed to be taken, but I was able to save the leg.”

“Thank you.” Shamir sighed, relaxing her posture. “This means a great deal to me. And to her.”

“It’s no trouble. Any healer worth their sparks would have done the same.” The bishop appeared to waver, as if struggling with something. Then she flattened out her robes and cleared her throat. “Your woman will live if I am any judge. The fever remains, but it should break with enough rest and hydration. There is more I think we should discuss, but it can wait. The day has undoubtedly been trying for both of you.”

“It has.” Shamir refrained from commenting that the length was closer to five years. The healer didn’t need to be privy to such information. “All the same, I’m grateful.”

The mage waved her hand dismissively and shook her head. The tight curl of her bun shook as she did so.

“Think nothing of it. I shall take my leave now, but you can stay here if you desire. I’ll bring a bundle of blankets for you in a bit.” With those parting words, the bishop exited swiftly.

Shamir turned her gaze back to the sleeping woman. Catherine’s face was pinched, but not with pain. Instead, it seemed she was merely caught within dreams. Shamir leaned down, letting her forehead rest against the unconscious woman. Catherine stirred faintly and turned. Hot gusts of breath pushed against Shamir's skin, past cheek and ear both.

Warmth bloomed, washing away the cold chill of rain.

**Next Chapter: Shape and Form**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello Cathmir fandom! I apologize for being away for so long, but my Edeleth winter special needed to be written. So blame my wandering muse! This chapter was super fun for me, because I can finally write out all my Dagda headcanons. I hope you enjoyed the world-building I tried to work in, as well as the more obvious religion stuff. The route I went is a bit of a compromise between Judaism and Celtic mythos with my own creative license. The concept of free will has been taken up to eleven, as you might have noticed, and I added a ton of stuff to suit my own ends. The 'first children' of Dagda are basically just the Tuatha Dé Danann, and I imagine them acting more in line with how they operate in myths. I did change Dagda's whole deal from an agricultural deity to smithing, so instead of a big ol' club he gets a cool hammer. Why did I do this? *cough* Well, I might be a huge smithing nerd, so...yeah. I hope no one takes offense to how I've depicted the Dagdan religion/culture, as I only endeavor to entertain and nothing more. If so, please yell at me in my email! Or if you just want to chat or ask questions, that's cool too.
> 
> EDIT: Whoops, I forgot to credit some things. The village of Acis gets its name from the story of Acis and Galatea. Toraigh is based on Tory Island which is the site of the real Conand's Tower according to myth.
> 
> Regarding the events that happened, consider this the true 'start'. It's only taken a few chapters (cuz I am slow and methodical like a turtle), but we're finally digging into the meat of the story. I am terribly mean to both these gals, but it all serves a greater purpose. Catherine needed something to give her a reality check, and at the same time provide a hurdle she couldn't immediately overcome. Meanwhile, Shamir needed something to make her reassess the life she had been living. I considered maiming Catherine completely; but, for reasons I won't delve into yet, that idea was nixed. The full extent of what this will mean going forward will be revealed next chapter. The conversations that take place in the past were good fun to explore, as is writing Cathmir when things were still shiny and new. I hope you guys enjoyed my take on things, because there is more still to come. (Also, I've been listening to God Help the Outcasts and it's stuck in my head. So the prayer scene was definitely influenced by this, lol. If you are now thinking of Shamir singing that song, then my work is done. I would also accept Dorothea as a substitute, cuz her and Esmeralda deserve everything.)
> 
> A big shout out to everyone who left kudos or a comment! Your thoughts are priceless and I adore every reader I get. Stay cool ~ AdraCat


	5. Shape and Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Knight awakens to an irrevocable change.  
The choices that shaped her and those still left to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am pleased to announce that my works will now be beta-read by the wonderful johnxfire! Without him, this chapter would be in far rougher shape. Much thanks to him, and to all you lovely readers out there~

_The news came swift, stealing across the whole of Faerghus. An assassination plot. The King and Queen slew in cold blood. Countless lives lost, all to the treachery of Duscur. In the wake of this bloodshed, Rufus Blaiddyd called upon his banners. Every noble sworn to the Kingdom would join the search for those who had orchestrated this attack. The people of Duscur would pay for their crimes in blood._

_Cassandra had been sent in her Father’s stead as the representative for House Charon. She took a number of men, all inflamed by this grave injustice, and offered her aid. Lord Blaiddyd was clear - no person of Duscur descent would be kept safe. It had been a simple task in concept, and Cassandra had been eager to serve. This was to be her first mission as the Crown’s bannerman. Failure would be seen as a slight upon her House’s honor._

_So they searched each field and plain. Every hill, village, and break in the trees. Scouring a path from the edge of Charon, through Rowe, and eventually onto the Rhodos Coast. The local lord, Lugh Moreau, joined their party upon arrival. He had been sent by Duke Rufus himself to provide assistance. The boy – for he was no older than she – had grinned at her knowingly. Cassandra was familiar with his like._

_Lesser nobles who clung to the scraps of the greater, all the while sneering at their backs. Their names often poached from heroes or kings of old. The Academy had been full of them, and she did not leap at the chance to work alongside his ilk. She was familiar with his father as well. A well-known braggart whose only accomplishment was that he had befriended King Lambert and Duke Rufus in his youth. The lands they oversaw were scant and lay within an isolated mire. Yet the boy’s smug countenance held a bearing more suited to an heir of a greater House._

_However, Cassandra let him keep his airs, choosing to ignore the thinly veiled implications he sent. Her House would never be swayed by such displays of self-importance. The Crest of Charon could not be so easily attained. That did not stop his flirtation, unfortunately. It was only after a particularly cutting remark in the midst of surveying the coastline that he finally noticed her lack of interest. Satisfied smirks were traded for sulky glowers, as if spurning him was equal to kicking his dog. Childish and vain to the core._

_Spitefully, he had ridden ahead of her party to scout the eastern shore. It was there, in an impulsive fit of bravado, that the lord came across a curious group of people. Cassandra had ridden up next to Lugh scant moments later, eyes wide._

_Dark-skinned and ragged in garb, they dropped the boat they had been hauling. Three women, all thin of frame, cowered away from the mounted lords. Two children clung to their presumed mother’s skirts, faces smeared with sand. Only one man was among them. He was spindly, features lined with age, and holding only an oar. Sheer terror shone in his wild-eyed stare._

_“Look here, Cassandra!” Lugh recovered from the shock quickly, sending her a superior grin. “It seems I’ve found our first batch of Duscur rats. Lucky us.”_

_He drew his sword, and the sound of singing metal drew Cassandra from her stupor. She rode up between them both, horse nearly colliding with Lugh’s. The nobleman scowled deeply, hands twisting on the reins._

_“What are you—”_

_“Stop and look at them, Moreau,” Cassandra commanded sharply. “These aren’t soldiers or conspirators. They are just normal citizens of Duscur. This isn’t what we were ordered to do.”_

_The young man jeered at her derisively, gaze hard._

_“We were ordered to cut down any who attempt to escape the Crown’s justice! Those who watched as our King was murdered under Duscur hospitality.” Lugh raised his chin in a proud affectation. “They look to be running to my eye. Would an innocent person flee so readily?”_

_“When confronted with blades, yes. I imagine so.” Cassandra grasped the hilt of her sword; a wordless threat. “A group of women, children, and one old man is hardly a force to fear.”_

_“Don’t be naive,” The man spat. “Young, old, what does it matter? They come from a land that betrayed our country’s trust. Who is to say they are not just as capable as the men who slit King Lambert’s throat? Who ravaged the fair Lady Patricia?”_

_“Baseless assumptions and rumors. You were not there, Lord Moreau.”_

_“Neither were you, Charon.” Lugh dismounted, sword still drawn. He encroached upon the Duscur people with a sneer. “Now, stand aside. I shall attend to my duty for the pride and honor of my House. These animals deserve nothing less.”_

_Again, Cassandra intervened. She flew off her horse, relic brandished. She pointed it towards him. Red sparks raced along bladed teeth._

_“I’ll not be party to senseless slaughter. Drop your weapon, or I’ll be forced to act.”_

_“You’re standing in defense of them? These—” Lugh cut himself off, lapsing into smug certainty. “No. You wouldn’t dare. All you have are petty threats and a sword that would be better served as a torch. I will not be intimidated so easily.”_

_“Try me, Moreau.” Cassandra stood her ground, weapon at the ready. Truthfully, she had expected him to retreat. But she had underestimated the lengths to which a man such as him would go for glory. It had been a costly mistake. Suddenly, Lugh turned to face his soldiers._

_“The man who slays these Duscur savages will be richly rewarded!” He bellowed, voice reaching across the sand. “Leave none of them alive! For King and country!”_

_Collectively, the armored mass drew their weapons. Steel and iron gleamed, catching the sun. At that moment, there were no thoughts to be had. No deeper impulses to curtail. In her heart, there was only one path before her. She lifted Thunderbrand to the heavens and roared._

_“Soldiers of Charon, to me!”_

_They heeded her call, and the conflict began. Countrymen faced each other in a clash of silver and blue. Axe to shield. Lance to Sword. Moreau to Charon. Cassandra spared only an instant to glance at the frightened Duscur civilians._

_“Run,” Was all she said to them. Dark eyes peered back at her in gratitude. Then, they scurried down the beach; children lifted into hunger-emaciated arms. Gathering herself, Cassandra dove into the fray. She had tasted battle before, at the behest of the Church and her Father. Yet not like this. Not with men who were of her home and in similar circumstances. These soldiers, who should have by all accounts been her allies. But what sort of person would Cassandra be if she let them do as they please?_

_So she fought like the proud lion she was. Thunder in her veins and fury in her soul, her blade carved a path through flesh and steel, laying all who would stand in her path low. It could hardly be called a fair battle. Moreau's men were too few; their leader untried. It did not take much to rout them and at the end those who lived laid down their arms._

_Only Lugh would not surrender. He snarled like a wild beast and threw himself towards her. It was a simple matter to evade, and she deftly cut his knees out from under him. He fell in a miserable heap, screaming to the sky. Cassandra bore down on him with a single-minded focus. She raised her relic, gnashing her teeth. Hands trembling, the man had lifted his arms above his head._

_“Mercy...” He uttered in a rasp. “...Please!”_

_It was a plea Cassandra decided to ignore. The woman’s blood was too high; her anger too deep. Then her sword fell in a clean arc, cleaving his head in twain. It rolled in the sand, staining the granules with crimson finality. All was quiet. Cassandra panted, keeping her relic to the ground._

_In the corner of her eye, Moreau soldiers fled away from the scene. They vanished into nothing, past the dense cliffs of the Rhodos. She watched them leave with a sense of unease. Her eyes roved over the numerous corpses which littered the beach. Her work, as well as those who served under her. This could not be undone._

_“Lady Cassandra?” One of her soldiers stepped next to her. His face was covered by visor, but she could hear the tremor underneath his words. “What... what should we do next?”_

_Cassandra stared at him, knot growing in her stomach. Then she swallowed and straightened._

_“Clean off your blade.” The woman placed her back to him, glaring over the ocean. “Wash off the blood. Tell the rest to do the same. Then, we return to Charon.”_

_“At your order.” The soldier bowed, but she paid him no heed. Cassandra walked along the sand, heading to the sea. There, she waded within the water. It soaked up to her knees, cold as the ice growing in her chest. She bent to wash her face clean of viscera and took solace in the salted sting. Her mind was a whirl, repeating the same question:_

** _What have I done?_ **

  
  


* * *

  
  


The world was made of heat and endless dark. Eyes opened, vision blurred. Straining to see past the shadows. Hands grasped and reached, confusion in its most pure form. They searched fruitlessly, unable to gain traction. Limbs tangled in sheets as fear eclipsed everything else.

_Where was she?_

_ Who was she?_

Fire thrashed underneath skin, burning all thoughts away. Images flashed, a haunting of terrible things. Blood, warm on her face. The taste, metallic and base, cloying like wine. The vibration of a sword parry; the rush of triumph. Slicing through guard and shield. Then, the horror as green eyes dimmed and closed.

_Forgive me._

_ I never–_

Something cold pressed to her brow. She jerked, startled and sightless. The touch trailed, scouring along heated skin. There was a glimmer of light, flickering and ever so small. Cold fingers swept aside damp hair. A gentle touch.

_Who is this?_

Another flash, bringing with it a dull memory. A voice humming an unfamiliar song. Long, green locks fanning across her face. The Lady, who was nothing but kind, mending the gash upon her head. And above her, a halo of everlasting light. A woman touched by divinity who saved a foolish girl who did not deserve it.

“Lady Rhea…?” She asked, voice croaking to the dark. The shadows stilled. Twin purple flames lit from above. She shut her eyes, breath coming fast.

So much fire. So much _pain_. The screams as they burned. The regret which seared deeper than the smoke in her lungs. Failure, stealing away what reason was left. And that color…

Mingling with red and gold. A snake creeping at her feet. Hissing with fangs bared, venom dripping onto the soil. And oh, how it sank and spread. Blackening the world with its poison. Her sword lifted, poised to strike.

A rabid wolf latched onto her leg, tearing; rending. She collapsed and a feast began. The wolf devoured as a snake coiled. Up past her arm, scales cold like a dagger’s kiss, and around her neck. She reached up in desperation.

_No! Please, Goddess…!_

Something held her down, whispering words she could not understand. But she knew that voice, didn’t she?

Soft talks amid warm days and cold nights. Trading secrets of the past as she never had before. Scared of revealing too much, but the other woman never pried too deep. And _her_, so strange and different to everyone else. Filled with mysteries, but somehow familiar. An echo of turmoil that reverberated like a squall through her chest. A mirrored recognition between two like halves.

Then there had been a dance, hadn’t there? Or had she dreamed it? And after, the monastery balcony at night. A coy stare, heavy-lidded and wanting. Like the petals of an iris soaked with rain. Lips pressed to her own. Nails scraping lightly upon her scalp. Shivers dancing across her spine. Then, a bitter tang ran across tongue and teeth; submerging her in doubt. She tore herself away and forced a laugh that she did not feel._ I can’t. I can’t..._

_But it would have been worth it._

The cold returned, and she knotted her hands within sheets. Illusion or fondest wish? What had been real? A sudden moment of clarity dawned. She opened her eyes, trembling.

The shadow was gone. Light extinguished. Panic returned two-fold, but then there came another touch. Still kind and free of malice. She clung to the figure. Something ran through her hair, soothing away the terror.

_Shh...shh...go back to sleep._

That same voice. Low and comforting. She settled into the embrace. As the dark returned, she let herself fall; knowing instinctively this person would catch her.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Light filtered through the window, falling across her eyes. Catherine cringed away. She covered her face with her hand, foggy, as awareness slowly brought clarity. She felt... odd. Cotton-mouthed and frazzled; as if the whole of her had been broken into pieces before being haphazardly reassembled. The Knight tried to rise. A firm hand fell upon her shoulder, keeping her in place. Alarmed, Catherine stared at the appendage before trailing up to meet impassive brown eyes.

“Steady on. You’ve had a rough few nights.” It was a woman, advanced in age and stern in manner. Judging by her plain robes, a healer as well. Catherine relaxed onto the sheets. Shamir had the good grace to leave her in the sick-house, if nothing else. She tried to speak, only to find her mouth unbearably dry. Perceptive, the bishop took a nearby glass and offered it.

“Here. Sip on this. Careful now!” The woman’s wrinkled visage pinched as Catherine tried to gulp it down. Subsequently, water spilled onto her linen tunic. Abashed, the Knight wiped her mouth; thirst slaked for the time being.

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “You are the Head Bishop of this clinic? I vaguely recall meeting you...I think.”

“Don’t lie to me girl. I highly doubt you remember anything of the past week.” The woman eyed her shortly. “You look clear-headed enough. Your fever had me concerned, but it looks like you pulled through.”

“Fever?” Catherine frowned, hand flying to her forehead inadvertently. “I... I didn’t realize. But I had a leg wound. Why would–”

“The wound had gone sour. Flesh rotted nearly in its entirety.” The bishop’s face pulled tight, lips white with tension. “Regrettably, I needed to excise the rot. Your leg keeps, but it will not be the same.”

“That right?” Catherine swallowed, glancing at her bandaged limb. Now that she was fully awake, the lack of pain was conspicuous. As was the vast change in appearance. Even bandaged as it was, she could make out the unnaturally thin shape. Half in size compared to its sibling, and rail straight. She rolled her ankle, testing the pull and flex of muscle. It felt stiff; awkward in motion. And twisting it fluidly proved an impossible task. Anxiety pulsed like liquid fire in her veins.

“I don’t...” She attempted a steadying inhale. “Will it heal?”

Something that might have been pity colored the healer’s expression. Catherine braced herself, fearing the worst.

“Magic is an odd thing. Capable of great harm and wondrous miracles,” The woman cautiously started. “But it also follows an unquestionable logic. Just as I cannot sprout a tree from nothing, neither can I a limb. Nor can a man who was born without sight spontaneously be granted it. Your leg remains, just not as it once was. The muscle needed to be peeled away, but a healer only mends flesh. They are not capable of creating more.”

“Flowery explanation for something really simple.” Catherine stared up at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “You’re saying that I’m stuck like this. It cannot be healed, because it already is. That sort of thing, right?”

_A lame leg._ Frustration and despair welled up like the ocean tide, threatening to drag her under. It was a humiliating end. Stopped in her purpose by something so small… She clutched the sheets. How could this happen? Not now, when she still needed to serve the Lady’s last wish. The Goddess had saved her for a reason, so why was She still taking more?

In the days since Fhirdiad, Catherine had found renewed faith in her survival. Surely, this must be in Her plan; she had thought. To be ripped from the jaws of death, beyond the Empire’s reach...it could have only been the work of the divine. If Catherine, terrible and flawed, was to be saved over the Lady herself, then the path she had been destined for could only be thus. To avenge those who had been lost. To be the mortal instrument of Her might, and destroy the heretical Emperor. If she perished in this final confrontation, then it would have been an even trade.

Now, those thoughts meant nothing. Catherine could not fight like this, maimed and weak. She could do nothing at all. So what was she, truly, in the grand plan of the Goddess?

_ What am I meant to be, if not the instrument of Your vengeance?_

“While the damage was great, the muscle that remains can be strengthened – should you put forth the effort. But it will take time and patience. Not all is lost, Ser Knight.” The healer sighed heavily, making her way towards the door. “Your wife will be back shortly, as I understand. She insisted upon visiting the market–”

_ Strengthened…_

Catherine breathed out, letting her rising panic dissipate. Then the rest of the healer’s words registered.

“Wife?” She raised her head to balk at the woman. The bishop raised her brow pointedly; as if Catherine were a child lacking in wits.

“The young woman who brought you to me. Been by your side since the start, she has. Lovely girl.” The bishop paused and sent her patient a withering glare. “Unless you’ve yet to make an honest woman of her. Shame on you, then. I found her devotion to you quite heartening.”

Catherine just gaped, voice stolen. Thankfully, an amused huff came from the door.

“Your concern is appreciated, Madam Eithne.” Shamir came into view, shutting the door upon entering. A pack of significant size was tossed over her shoulder. “But after nine years, I’ve given up on her handing me a ring.”

“Young and foolish.” The bishop sniffed, appearing strangely disappointed. “Time waits for no one, least of all those who squander it. But I digress.”

The healer turned to the table beside her and proceeded to busy herself with a selection of salves. Catherine shifted her attention to her former partner, both irritated and perplexed.

“Shamir. Why…?”

The other woman wandered closer, though not within touching distance. On a good day, it was often hard to tell what she was thinking. Shamir did not wear her emotions easily. At the present moment, it was an insurmountable task. Violet eyes peered at her from beneath dark lashes. There was something unsettling about the inspection, even if Catherine could not define why.

“Something wrong?” Shamir slung the bag into a nearby chair. It clanked and jangled, filled with various objects of dubious nature. Then the woman crossed her arms casually. As if nothing had ever been wrong. As if she had not revealed her duplicitous scheme before Catherine’s collapse. The Knight scowled, ire consuming prior confusion.

“Why did you stay?” She demanded hotly. “I thought you would have been long gone by no, sailing away into Almyra. Wasn’t that the plan?”

Shamir’s stare flashed with something heavy and unpleasant.

“Plans change. So does circumstance.” She hesitated, tossing a glance in the bishop’s direction. “Would you give us a moment? My partner and I need to talk.”

“Of course.” The healer did not appear offended, but she did glance at them speculatively. “Do hurry, however. And please do not forget what we talked about.”

“I won’t,” Shamir replied in return. Catherine narrowed her eyes, suspicion growing. What exactly had taken place while she was ill? What further secrets did the Dagdan woman hide? Regardless, the Knight wasn’t pleased. She watched moodily as the healer left them alone. They sat in silence for a time, Catherine tense with anger and Shamir infuriatingly unaffected. The archer’s face was calm; a pond among still winds.

“...How are you feeling?”

Catherine blinked, thrown. She had not expected that question. Her rage cooled slightly, if with great reluctance.

“Better than before.” She looked down at her leg, shaken and bitter. “The healer insists there isn’t anything else to do for me. So this is what my life will be like now. I can’t say I’m happy, but at least I didn’t lose the damned thing.”

“I was afraid of that as well, but she did good work.” Shamir’s mouth pulled, lip snared between her teeth. “I’m glad. It was hard, seeing you in pain.”

“You don’t need to feign concern.” Catherine scoffed and twisted to offer the woman a scathing look. “Why are you still here, Shamir? Do you feel indebted? Responsible? If so, then toss all these notions from your head. I won’t entertain them any longer.”

“That isn’t—” Shamir bit off the rest of her response. She closed her eyes, arms wrapped tight around herself. “...It was wrong of me. To trick you into coming here for my sake. I can admit to that. But I had your well-being in mind.”

Catherine drew herself up, ready to refute, but the other woman was quicker. Shamir’s sharp gaze narrowed in, cutting to the quick.

“I thought I could convince you,” she continued. “I see now how foolhardy that assumption was. We should have gone over it together. We... should have spoken about a lot of things.”

Catherine watched as a pale throat worked, tendon clearly seen.

“I’m ready to listen to what you want. Entirely. But in return, I ask you to do the same.” Shamir brought her head up, expression suddenly weary. “Catherine, if you want me to leave, I’ll go. If you want me to stay, I shall. Because I’m choosing _you _over whatever other life I could potentially find. If that means staying in Fόdlan, so be it.”

“What sort of declaration is that?” Catherine’s shoulders fell, the fight draining from her. She ran an aggrieved hand across her face. “Honestly, how am I meant to take this?”

“It means that I’m here to stay.” Shamir did not meet her eyes, instead deciding to look at the bed. “I won’t run off on you. Whatever comes next, we can face it together.”

_ Together?_ Despite her lingering vexation, Catherine could not help but feel comforted by the thought. This woman had been at her side for years. Leaving her behind would be just as awful as being left. Shamir’s presence had been her one constant in a world of ever-changing strife; the only safe-harbor she had found outside of service and holy obligation. She could not knowingly send her away. To do so would be worse than losing a limb. The Knight nodded her assent, even as her doubts stayed.

“I suppose that will do.” She leaned back on the bed, careful not to jostle her wrapped limb. It felt fine, but she would rather not take chances. “We can stay in Conand until I get used to this bum leg, perhaps lay low until the Empire grows nice and complacent.”

“That won’t work.”

Catherine stilled.

“And why not? I thought–”

“Conand is not the best place for us currently.” Shamir made a faint noise of annoyance, although it could have been from simple exhaustion as well. “Did you not notice? All the healers here are not affiliated with the Church. And the Cathedral stands barren and empty.”

“To heal requires immense faith.” The Knight shifted on the bed, apprehensive. “If they aren’t an official part of the Church, then...”

“Organized sects are not the whole of a person’s belief.” Shamir held her gaze for a time. “Madam Eithne, your healer, took the position of Head Bishop recently. A couple of days after Fhirdiad.”

Fhirdiad. The razing. Flames, smoke, grief and—

Catherine massaged her brow, stiffening at the memories. Graciously, the other woman did not comment on her reaction. Her expression was carefully staid, lacking in accusation.

“She saw your armor. The crest of Seiros engraved into the breastplate.” She wandered near and sat cautiously at Catherine’s side. They did not touch, even as their fingers threatened to graze. “She was very displeased. However, she did not withhold her care, even as the week passed and victims of Fhirdiad wandered into Conand.”

“There’s a great many of them, isn’t there?” Catherine bowed her head. “Have you seen them?”

“Yes.” The archer’s jaw noticeably tensed. “I will not torture you by describing their wounds. But much of it is horrific to witness.”

_My hand. My actions._ The supposed will of the Goddess, but her responsibility. Catherine’s hands began to shake. She masked it by covering them with the sheet. As a young girl, her family’s stable had caught fire. It took the servants an age to break open the doors and let the horses free. The poor animals had lived, but not without serious injury. Manes scorched, sleek flesh ruined in swathes of angry red. Cassandra had cried for them, the weak-hearted girl she had been.

So how should she feel now? Especially when it had seemingly been all for naught. Fhirdiad, burned to ash because she had obeyed the Lady. And for that loyalty here she was, crippled and lame, surrounded by the victims she created. Catherine fell back onto the bed, head hitting the pillow.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be wise to linger. I don’t want to run the risk of them recognizing me. So what do we do?” She murmured; limp and defeated.

“We cannot stay, regardless.” Shamir audibly sighed. “I still say we should take a boat and leave Fόdlan behind.”

“That’s not an option!” Catherine attempted a heated glare, but her spirit was sapped. At best, it likely appeared as a pout. Judging by her partner’s unimpressed stare, that was exactly how it looked. “I know you weren’t loyal to the Lady, only her coin, but you must have _some_ concept of duty. No matter your opinion of the Archbishop, you must agree that she was right to want the Emperor dead.”

She paused, letting conviction deepen her tone.

“Edelgard usurped the Church and murdered the King. These are not the actions of a righteous person. It was divine decree the Emperor should die, and so I will complete that task in the Lady’s stead. It will be my last work as a Knight of Seiros.”

“...If that is what you believe then it would be futile trying to argue.” Shamir pursed her lips with disapproval. Nonetheless, she was true to her word. “But you can’t attempt an assassination as you are. We need a place to rest and recuperate in full. Preferably outside the Empire’s notice.”

“With the Alliance disbanded and Faerghus ripped apart, we need more than rest. I would need men, allies who could provide resources...” Catherine trailed, an idea occurring. “There is one place we could go. A place that I would have every right to command.”

“Which would be?” Shamir’s brow knit, evidently unable to parse the Knight’s line of thought. Catherine faced her, gathering her strength. Then she pulled her legs to the side and let them drop to the floor. She ignored the strain in her savaged calf.

“Charon. We can head to Charon.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They departed Conand the next day. At the morning crow, the two women bid farewell to the healer Eithne. The woman offered them a curt bow. In an odd turn, she pulled Shamir aside for a final word. Catherine could not hear what was said, but the thoughtful expression on her partner’s face did not bode well. Then the older woman pulled Shamir into a quick embrace, something the Knight had not expected.

When her partner returned, Catherine dared to ask what it was they conversed over. The Dagdan woman merely glanced at her before taking the reins in hand. The mare grunted, settling as a hand swept along her muzzle.

“Nothing important.” Shamir had replied at length. “Get on. We should head out before the sun fully rises.”

Catherine frowned at her but did not press the issue. She would trust her partner; one last time. So they ventured up the steep hill of Toraigh, riding in the direction of Galatea. They would need to pass through the dense woodland and marsh-lands before reaching the edge of Charon territory. The prospect filled her with varying amounts of anticipation and unease.

It had been nearly a decade since she stepped within the Charon border. Out of the good of her heart, Lady Rhea never sent her there. If the Church needed to coordinate with her Father, she was never mentioned. A small mercy; one the other Knights might have interpreted as cowardice on her part. It was not an entirely false assumption. She had been afraid. But not of her family’s resentment or Father’s disappointment. Rather, Catherine was frightened of how she would feel.

Would she be steadfast, able to separate what should have been from what was? Would she be bitter, witnessing Alexander in the role that had been hers by birth? Or worse, would she be perfectly happy in a way the cold dormitories of Garreg Mach could never replicate?

Yet, after all the doubt and fear, Catherine was to journey home once more. The prodigal daughter of a family cut to shambles. Father and Alexander long-buried; only her estranged siblings left to receive her. But this was the only option left, for her and the country she still wished to serve. She could not say for certain they would help, but this was her _family_. Of anyone, surely they would grant her sanctuary.

Catherine did not reveal her concerns. She let Shamir only see her certainty and none of the nagging anxiety that plagued each step. The other woman had seen her too weak already. She needed to be strong, and not just for herself. As they traveled through Galatea, the Knight focused her efforts on adjusting to her handicap. After the days spent on bed-rest, her body was atypically frail. She tired quickly, and using her leg without assistance was a chore.

While the flesh had been healed, the muscle was new and thin. She could not stand for long, and walking took unbearable effort. She must have looked quite ridiculous; akin to a newborn foal stumbling through its first steps. Shamir never commented on her struggle, a fact Catherine was grateful for.

Day after day, after they set camp, the Knight would stray into the woods. There, she went through the stances she knew by heart. Never with genuine sword in hand — Shamir would not allow her to take the risk of further injury — but a long twig served just as well.

The first steps were always the most difficult. Adjusting to the lack of flexibility. The disparate weight between her lamed leg and its twin. Struggling to move without falling onto the ground; the greatest hurdle and the only one she could not overcome.

In a seemingly endless loop, Catherine found herself tumbling into dirt and leaves, just shy of twisting her ankle on more than one occasion, yet she refused to admit defeat. The healer said not all was lost. She just needed to strengthen the damaged limb. Then Catherine could walk into Charon with her head held high; birthright claimed at last. As the Lord of Charon, she could rally the rest of Faerghus’ nobility. The Emperor would need to answer the threat, and once the snake was vulnerable…

Edelgard would finally be made to answer for her crimes. The Empire’s reign put to a definitive end. She refused to settle for less. Determined, the Knight continued her practice with increased vigor. Catherine went through a stance she knew by heart, foot shifting forward. A sharp pull came from her scarred leg. Suddenly she fell to her knees, hissing at the impact. Frustration burned, and heat cascaded up her neck.

“You shouldn’t be so hasty.” She heard Shamir’s voice come from behind her. Catherine climbed to her feet. Her sword-hand curled around the practice ‘blade’.

“I can’t afford to wait.” She fell back into form, ignoring the twinge in her ankle. A light sprain, but she could push through it. “The sooner I train this useless leg of mine, the sooner I can fight. Charon must see me capable of leading them.”

“You’re assuming they will take you.” The sound of foliage crunching beneath heeled boots betrayed her partner’s steps. Catherine felt the brief slide of fingers atop her shoulder. “Time changes things. You know that.”

“Are you trying to change my mind?” The Knight huffed and slowly spun on her heel. She nearly tripped over loose rocks but refused to call attention to it. A violet gaze narrowed.

“I am trying to prevent any unreasonable expectations. You can’t expect Charon to be just as you remember.” Shamir stole a glance at her leg. “Causing yourself more harm in the process is—”

“Reckless?”

“Pure stupidity.” The Dagdan woman glared up at her. “And stop interrupting me.”

“My apologies, Lady Shamir.” Catherine flashed the snidest grin she could muster, knowing it infuriated her partner. She let the twig rest against her collar, a habitual tick from her days wielding Thunderbrand. Her smile darkened at the bleak reminder. “Look, I appreciate the concern. Truly. But I need to do this. My family has always respected strength. I can’t allow them to see me like this.”

“Stubborn.” Shamir canted her head to the side, exhaling. “Whatever. Do as you please. I’m heading back to camp.”

As the woman turned, a curious urge overcame the Knight. Catherine grabbed her partner’s sleeve.

“Wait.”

Shamir was still, but she did not pull away. Catherine dipped her head, letting their eyes meet.

“I should have said this before, but I’ll say it now.” She took a deep breath and stepped close. “Thank you.”

The sun caught purple irises for a moment, lending to Shamir’s stunned expression. The woman appeared soft suddenly, all the rough edges smoothed. Catherine drank in the uncharacteristic look. The Knight stepped back as she noticed their proximity, clearing her throat.

“For saving me in Fhirdiad. For staying with me. Everything.” She ran a hand through her hair, locks free from its tie. Her grin morphed into something more genuine as she went on. “The Goddess must have guided you to my side. A sign that our cause is just and Her wisdom bountiful.”

Something dark ran across Shamir’s face; a brief shadow she could not decipher. The Dagdan woman twisted on her heel.

“Don’t take long. I’ll not go looking for your body should a wolf drag you away.”

She disappeared into the growing shadows of the wood. Soon, there was only Catherine and the burr of the wind. The sun was beginning to set, and a light chill suffused the air. The Knight shrugged off the prickling of her skin. Then she took up the same form as before, undaunted. What was a fall or two, in the grand scheme of the Goddess? She would conquer this weakness as she had every challenge in life. As she would each one to come next. Charon. The Empire. Edelgard.

The Goddess favored her still, and she was resolute in that belief. Her failure to protect the Lady was not the end. Not if she still drew breath. _This_ was the path she was meant to take. It must be.

_Why else would You save me?_

  
  


* * *

It took them several days before the edge of Charon could be seen. The rolling spine of the Ohgma heralded their arrival, as did the stiff spire of conifers that surrounded each road. The terrain was painfully familiar. The small contained world of her childhood, and the subject of each nostalgic dream. Despite the numerous instances she told herself otherwise, Catherine had missed it. Her home as it had always been.

Her family’s estate lay sequestered in the middle of Charon, entrenched deep in the forest and the rear-facing the mountains itself. The mines which provided her House’s wealth lay just beyond, an ever-present reminder of how they climbed to political significance. Her father used to take her riding around Charon’s periphery. Not a mere jaunt, rather a firm reminder of the responsibility she held.

Catherine heard the echo of his voice as they passed each well-tread path.

_When you are Lord_, he had been fond of saying. Always when. Never if. The late Lord Priam had never dreamed of his favored child falling to disgrace. Murderer. Conspirator. Lies, all of it. But did her father know that? Did he die, still thinking she had forsaken her country? She had only followed her heart and been damned in the course of that folly. But it was not her misguided heart that led her now.

_I follow the Goddess’ path. Not mine._ Catherine kept her eyes trained to the south. _And Her will cannot be wrong._ _Fhirdiad. The Lady’s death. All of this must have been preordained._

She did not wish to contemplate otherwise. As they crested a hill overlooking her home, Shamir drew them to a halt. Catherine frowned, but the tense line of her partner’s back caught her attention.

“Something wrong?”

The archer said nothing. She looked to the west, fingers outstretched. Catherine’s eyes trained on the area. A cold arrow of fear burrowed under her ribs. There, in the distance, a standard blew in the wind. Golden wings on a field of red and black. The personal arms of the Emperor.

Was it possible Edelgard had tracked them?

“I doubt it.”

Catherine blinked, attention shifting to the other woman. She had not meant to give voice to the question. Shamir didn’t seem to notice her gaff, focus snared by the waving flag.

“The complement is too small. It’s more likely that a member of her Strike Force is in command.”

“But why are they here?” Catherine straightened, momentary fear morphing into outrage. “Charon_._ They’re here to secure Charon, aren’t they?”

“That seems to be the case.” Shamir clicked her tongue and turned their mount to face the east. “We should tread lightly. The nearest village is two hours to the north. We may have to bed down by the Ohgma if we don’t want to be spotted.”

“What?” The Knight frowned, staring at the other woman incredulously. “With the Empire banging at my family’s door? They’ve already killed my brother and father.”

“And how do you expect to help them?” The archer sent her a cutting glare. “Rushing in will only get yourself killed. We make camp and assess the situation at dawn.”

Catherine bit her tongue, knowing Shamir was right. Running into the fray would only lead to a swift demise. Yet an icy chill lingered, pervasive and sharp. All the while, the Empire’s presence hung over her head. A fanged beast who threatened to devour everything else she held dear. Her mind continued to whirl, even as her body went through empty motions. She only came back to herself as Shamir led them to their new camp, right beneath a rocky overhang.

As the Dagdan woman gathered wood for a fire, Catherine settled into the dirt. She rubbed her leg idly, brow furrowed in thought. The Emperor’s Strike Force had made a name for themselves over the years. Each member was no longer the gangly children of distant memory. In their place stood dogs of the Empire, hands just as bloodstained as their master. They were dangerous but also assured of their victory. To them, the war was at an end.

Did they know Catherine lived? The chance was slim, but if they were truly ignorant she could slip by unnoticed. It would take little effort. The holdings of House Charon were engraved within her heart and soul. Each towering tree; every unmarked path. The well that had long since been overgrown. The mill house covered in vine, overlooking the south tower. The small incline which met the Charon gardens. The years that had passed did not blur her recollection in the slightest. It could be done if she were of a mind.

Catherine turned her gaze to Shamir. The Dagdan woman had sparked a flame and was currently tossing tinder upon the embers. Schooling her features, Catherine limped to their dwindling supplies. She rooted her hands through the pack before stilling upon glass. It was cheap ale, better used for cleansing wounds rather than honest drink. Not her first option, but it would have to do. She grabbed the bottle and stood.

“Shamir.”

Keen eyes fell upon her as she approached. Catherine struggled to keep her expression placid as Shamir’s gaze settled on the bottle in her hand.

“I didn’t buy that for you to get sloshed,” the shorter woman stated wryly.

“No, but I rather feel like drinking my problems away.” Calloused hands loosened the cork with a pop. “Besides, this is as good a time to drink as any. Crippled, lost in the woods, my family in dire straits...”

“We’re hardly lost.” Shamir eyed her, considering something unknown. Catherine tensed at the scrutiny, unsure if her intentions had been read. Fortunately, that didn’t appear to be what her partner was mulling over. Shamir relaxed, the harsh line of her back gentling. “Fine. Drink up then, but don’t go stumbling around in the dark.”

“I’m not that pathetic.” Catherine forced a chuckle, sitting beside her. She brought the glass to her lips. The liquid washed over her closed mouth, not a drop seeping upon the tongue. “When was the last time we drank together, anyway? It feels like it’s been years.”

“It has been, almost.” Shamir took the bottle. She took a long pull, even as her face twisted with disgust. “I forgot how much I detested this.”

“You actually kept count? I’m flattered.”

“Hardly. That night was only significant because of what preceded it.” Liquid amber trickled down a pale jaw, spilling onto leather. Shamir wrinkled her nose and wiped her mouth. “It was the day you came back from Remire. When you fought Edelgard.”

“It wasn’t a_ fight_.” Catherine protested, voice low with irritation. The memory rankled at her pride. “I had her at my mercy, then she pulls a band of mercenaries out from her Imperial ass like it's nothing. It was a miraculous pile of bullshit.”

“You came back, licking your wounds and shouting like a lunatic if I recall correctly.” Shamir went on, completely disregarding the interruption. “The mangy cat who scrapped with the wrong bird.”

“Mangy?”

“Hmm.” Shamir leaned back against the rock wall they were camped under, feet pointed in the direction of the fire. A light flush colored her cheeks. For a hardened mercenary, Shamir was strangely lightweight in her drinking habits. Something Catherine knew quite well from all these years at her side.

They slid into a comfortable silence, Shamir drinking her fill before passing the bottle to a sober Catherine. Each time, her partner would become laxer and laxer. Her tension appeared to melt away, and eyes lidded just a bit more with each trade. Catherine observed the result with a mixture of emotions. Subterfuge did not sit right, in truth. Such lengths had never been her game, nor her preferred method.

However, she knew the archer could not be made privy to her actions. Shamir would try to stop her, or at the very least follow. Should Catherine be caught, at least the Dagdan woman would not be as well. This was for the best. For her peace of mind, and her partner’s safety. After a time, their fire cooled to a comfortable smolder. The Knight glanced at Shamir. The woman’s breathing was slow and even, head tilted to the side. Her lashes fluttered in sporadic bursts.

“I had enough, I think,” Catherine spoke softly, feigning a yawn. She staggered to her feet. “Might go by the stream. Fetch some water.”

Shamir muttered something faintly, but her eyes did not open. There was a certain sense of languid ease upon her features. Orange tongues of light flicked across her hair, and shadows convened in the hollow of her neck. Catherine stared, momentarily regretful.

_I’m sorry. _She turned her back and strode towards the trees. _Hopefully, I’ll be back soon._

As Catherine made her way down the grassy slope, her eyes caught upon a large figure. A long face peered from the darkness, ears flicking once. The mare, of whom Shamir had decided against selling for some reason or another, made a huffing sound. Almond eyes peered with alarming intensity; near accusing. Catherine glared back. The beast did not like her in the slightest, a feeling that was entirely mutual.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Catherine growled out. She limped up to the animal reluctantly. “She’ll be fine. I’m just going for a quick reconnaissance.”

The horse blinked, long tail twitching. Then it snorted, before stomping a singular hoof.

“Oh, what do you know? You’re just a dumb horse.” Catherine scowled and seized the reins. “Now shut up and do what you’re told.”

The animal snorted again, almost petulantly, but it did not throw her. She settled into the saddle, a clumsy affair of unconditioned muscles. Her leg nearly gave, but the Knight pushed through the pain. Quickly, she led the horse into an easy canter; headed in the direction of the Charon estate. _Just for a bit_, Catherine insisted silently. _I just need to see my family. To know if they yet live. If they do...then I’ll know what the Goddess wishes of me._

  
  


_* * *_

  
  


At the rear of the estate, the thicket was dense and unruly. She and Alexander had discovered this while hiding from their nanny at the time, an unpleasant woman with a firm hand. After days of hacking at the bushes with their practice swords, they finally cleared a path that broke into a steep incline. There, the green gave way to uncompromising swathes of rock and they decided to climb the small cliff in ever-escalating feats of bravery. Young and stupid, they nearly got themselves killed countless times.

It was those memories Catherine called upon as she crept up the sheer sediment. If she could make it over the rocks, the path they had carved into the thicket should still be there. With the Empire preoccupied in the east and west, she could slip in unnoticed. Fortunately, the incline was not fierce for a fully grown adult, even with her weakened leg. She nearly slipped at the top but caught herself quickly. Then, with a great heave, Catherine pulled herself up.

As she thought, the break was mostly intact. The brambles were still sparse enough to tread through, and she crouched down to her knees. After several moments of slow progress, Catherine finally made way into the estate proper. The ornate garden fixtures of her youth graced her eyes as she rose.

It was empty and dark, only the various flowers to greet her. A winding path of river rock and slate wrapped around a nearby fountain; an ostentatious lion with a maw of ever-pouring water. In the background, the Main House loomed like a guardian of stone and lime mortar. A pang of nostalgic longing swept through her frame. Catherine soothed it away, hand pressed to her chest.

_This was the home of Cassandra. Not I._ She breathed deep, trying to concentrate. _I will claim her name for this task, but I will not forget who I truly am._

Catherine moved deeper into the garden, steps as light as she could manage. Suddenly, the distinct sound of voices came from ahead. She crept low, favoring her strong leg. From behind a gathering of juniper, a long tress of auburn hair could be seen.

It was a woman, younger than she, garbed in the flowing skirts of nobility. She was willowy and tall, of similar height to herself. Catherine found herself squinting the longer she observed. There was something familiar about this person. From the severe cut of her jaw to the hawk-like point of her nose.

The boy she was conversing with was slight in frame, just as the woman was, but his skin was darker in tone. The same olive complexion of her father. No... _T__heir_ father. A spark of kinship moved beneath her skin, informing her of the crest he bore. Just as she had recognized it in the Ordelia girl.

Catherine took an inadvertent step forward, realizing who these people were. All at once, the two stopped talking as she stumbled near. The woman’s head shot up, and blue eyes widened upon seeing her.

“Cassandra?” The voice was breathy and deeper than her looks suggested. Catherine stared at her, recognition dawning.

“Melaina.” She took in the sharp-featured woman, comparing her to the sister she had known. Little Mel had been gangly; all knobby limbs and hunched shoulders. The girl had grown into her looks it seemed, though she still had their father’s regrettable nose. Catherine turned to the boy. He gawked rigidly, as a rabbit might when caught under the hunter’s bow. Melaina recovered quickly and gave him a sharp nudge.

“Argus, go inside and tell our guests to wait a bit longer.” The woman ran a gentle hand through his unruly, strawberry curls. “And try not to make a ruckus, hmm?”

The boy nodded, tossing Catherine a final uncertain look. Then he scampered in the direction of the house. The Knight watched his retreating form, puzzling over the name.

“Argus. That was the name of our uncle, Father’s brother.” She shook her head, rubbing her neck. “Is he also…?”

“Our youngest sibling,” Melaina confirmed. The woman folded her hands, a neat and tidy motion suited for her station. She was every inch the picture of a confident lady; a strange happenstance considering the timid girl who preferred animals to people. Her lips pursed tight; a deep vermilion gash that spoke of high nobility. “He was born right after you left. Mother was well-chuffed, of course, considering his... inheritance.”

“I noticed.” Catherine hesitated, somewhat stunned by the revelation. For the longest time, only she and Alexander had held the Crest of Charon. It led them to compete, but it also drew them closer together. None of their other siblings had been born with that inherent gift. Until now. _What did this change? Was Argus the Lord or–_

Melaina walked up to her, the train of her dress rasping against the ground. She offered her sister a welcoming smile.

“But enough about us. I want to know about you. After all, last I heard you had perished in Fhirdiad.”

“Did the Empire tell you this?” Catherine allowed her expression to darken. Her leg ached at the memory. “Obviously, I did not die. I was gravely injured; but due to the infinite mercy of the Goddess, I survived the blaze.”

“Oh? Only the Goddess?” Melaina arched a finely plucked brow. “Not anything else, or anyone?”

Catherine paused. There was something odd about her sister’s tone. Prying and too even. Wary, she dared to nod her head. Shamir’s involvement did not need to be mentioned without need.

“That’s right. I stole a horse and rode to the coast.” She tensed as the other woman skirted around her flank. “Melaina, why exactly are the Empire in Charon? Have they threatened you in any way?”

“Threatened?” The word dripped slowly from her sister’s mouth. “Not at all, though I do find your phrasing rather curious.”

Catherine stepped back, an abrupt chill raising the hair along her nape. She kept Melaina in her sights even as the woman circled like a well-groomed vulture. Suddenly, the woman came to a halt.

“As for your first question, well...” Crystalline blue eyes gazed at something past her shoulder. “Charon _is_ part of the Empire, isn’t it?”

Catherine felt armored hands grasped her by the arms. They shoved her to the stones, knees collapsing beneath her. She struggled and thrashed, but it was a futile effort. The hands held firm, covered in the familiar black-metal of the Empire. Two Imperial soldiers appeared at her sister’s side, blades at the ready.

It had been a trap. One she foolishly fell for.

Catherine grit her teeth, fury igniting in her breast. She tried to rise and throw off her captors, but a firm boot to the gut stole her breath. The Knight heaved, coughing violently. Another blow came from the side, catching the side of her head. She blinked slowly, spots of white and black dancing across her vision. She heard Melaina sigh; the sound distant like far-off thunder.

“Gentlemen, if you would, please escort my sister to her new quarters.” The woman’s heels clicked as she walked away. “We have much to talk about.”

Dazed, Catherine could only dimly react as they dragged her off. All the while, her world spun in an infinite loop; upended in the worst possible way. She barely registered them tying her feet with twine before lashing her wrists to something cold and unyielding. Then they left her alone in a room without light. Closed and dim just as the thoughts in her head. After several moments of vain struggle, the dark rushed up to swallow her whole.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Upon accepting the mantle of Knight, the past had been washed away. No longer would she be plagued by the decisions which marred her name. No longer would Cassandra, naive and idealistic, exist at all. In her place would stand a pillar of faith; immovable in conviction. Unshaken in loyalty. The sword which Lady Rhea would wield to guide Fόdlan in an era of peace. Catherine, who was birthed from the Goddess' light and nothing else._

_She had held to this identity with ease in the past year of service. Those who knew her before never commented on this change. Even as Thunderbrand lay across her back, ablaze with the proof of Charon's crest, no one dared speak to the contrary. The disgraced Cassandra was well and truly gone. Until a man visited the monastery, demanding her presence._

_Alexander. Perhaps the one person in the world she had not expected. She had stared at him, shamefully dumbfounded, as her brother appeared. He had strode into her room, head held high, bedecked in the formal garb of their House. The man had not changed much in her year of absence. His hair was still the meticulous slick of chestnut as it had always been. Her brother’s imperious gaze still leered in the same manner; akin in shade to her own yet twice as mocking. Even his walk, cocksure and gliding, remained. It was as if he had stepped out of her memories, but the familiarity burned rather than soothed._

_"Cassandra." Her brother approached, arms spread. It was obvious he meant to embrace her, but Catherine shied away. She leaned against the window sill, back to the glass._

_"Alexander." Catherine returned after a brief pause. Her arms crossed, shoulders squared. The man's brows raised, but his smile did not fade._

_"Hmm. So it's like that, is it?" Alexander clicked his tongue, arms falling. "I should have known. You always were one for childish tantrums."_

_"You've mistaken me for yourself." Catherine bristled, unable to help herself. "Or had I imagined all those times you whined about being ignored and forgotten? Poor Alexander; the first son, yet the last in Father's heart."_

_Her brother's expression clouded at the words. They had never been the closest of siblings, and as the eldest of their father's children, they both yearned to eclipse the other. Alexander had always been able to dig under her skin, just as she could to him. The young man adjusted his cravat with a sniff._

_"I didn't come to talk about the past, Cassy. Merely to congratulate you on your knighting, and wish you well."_

_"You think I'll fall for that?" Catherine parted her lips, just shy of snarling. "Bullshit. You wouldn't dare step outside of Charon without Father's leave. Tell me why you've come, Alexander."_

_"Father…" Her brother began. He lingered upon the name meaningfully. "Had indeed ordered me to visit. I'll grant you that much. However, my reasons are very different from what he expects."_

_"What do you mean?" She eyed him, irritation cooling in favor of reluctant curiosity. The man ambled closer, though she did not miss the way his eyes settled on the relic resting atop her bed._

_"You know when the news came, I couldn't believe it. It was a rather absurd story, truth be told. Duscur refugees hiding along the Rhodos. Lord Moreau's son slain by your hand. The proud scion of House Charon on the run from Duke Blaiddyd. Like a fairytale gone all sorts of wrong." _ _Alexander paused, a faint look of annoyance tainting his features._

_"Then to hear that you had joined the Knights of Seiros? What sort of madness had possessed her, I thought. To trade her family name for a joyless existence of the cloth? Of all things, that was something I never dreamed of you doing."_

_"Serving the Goddess is a noble calling." Catherine looked away. A pain she refused to acknowledge welled up from within. It whispered to her darkly, nagging like an open sore. All the while, repeating a name she wished to forget. Oblivious to her turmoil, her brother merely scoffed._

_"It is the calling of up-jumped commoners desperate for recognition or criminals seeking asylum. Is that what you are Cassandra? Is this how you shall be remembered?"_

_"I don't care how you choose to remember me." The Knight straightened, facing Alexander boldly. She took a step closer, height eclipsing his own. Her shadow dwarfed his, a fact she knew he despised. "My crimes have been absolved by the Goddess. Within her light, I will serve a higher purpose. More than I ever could have as a Lord of Charon."_

_"Do you hear yourself? We used to mock the holy-than-thou twits who tromped through Charon, and now you sound just like them." The man's voice lowered, uncharacteristically rueful. "Is it that easy for you to toss aside your family without a second thought?"_

_"And what were my options, Alex? Run until Rufus Blaiddyd bored of chasing me? Pray Father's word would be enough to stay his hand?" Catherine stared down at him, firm and certain. Alexander flinched back. Then he pursed his lips._

_"You could have tried, sister. Instead, you fled like a thief in the night. All but admitting your guilt." The man flashed a humorless smirk. "And now I am to take your place. Were you aware of that? The boy who suffered in your shadow will soon hold a title that should have rightfully been yours. No matter what you say, that must sting."_

_"You are welcome to it. A Knight of Seiros needs nothing save for faith," Catherine replied simply. She would not rise to his bait._

_"That's it then." Alexander's expression flattened, all trace of choler gone. If she noticed his sudden air of resignation, Catherine refused to call attention to it. Whatever her brother felt was no longer her concern. "Let's not mince words any longer. Father sent me to fetch our family relic. As you are no longer the heir, Thunderbrand should fall to me."_

_"That so? Then take it. I shall serve the Goddess honorably without the need for divine aid." The Knight clenched her jaw, reflexively. She had been given that blade upon her acceptance to the Officer's Academy. It had been a point of pride, at the time. Proof of her worth as heir. After her fall from grace, it served as the last tether to the girl she once was. She should have been glad to be rid of the relic and the significance it bore. Yet the prospect gutted her. Far more than she had thought it would._

_"As much is it would please me—" Alexander frowned suddenly. He swept his gaze over the relic before turning back to Catherine. "I cannot. We both know it would be best served in your hands. I am not a swordsman, nor do I intend to take the field at all in my Lordship."_

_"Are you finally admitting to cowardice?" Catherine asked glibly. She glared at him for a moment, unsure where this was heading. Alexander shrugged off her comment, though not without a grimace._

_"I only concede that letting you keep Thunderbrand would be for the best," He sniffed with palpable derision. Something hesitant lingered in his stare. "When I marry and have children of my own, I imagine the arrangement will be reevaluated. Until then, let it serve you well. Perhaps the stain of your actions will be washed away during its use."_

_"How gracious of you, Lord Charon." Catherine narrowed her eyes, keeping her arms folded. Alexander's frown persisted, even as he retreated to the door. He stilled in the middle of the threshold, tossing one last look in her direction._

_"...I always envied you. You, who had Father's attention and time. The golden child who could do no wrong in our family's eyes. We were born of the same mother, and bear the same crest. We should have been equals. Yet we weren't." The man lifted his head, blue eyes catching the light. They were darker than she had ever seen, veiled by an unknown emotion._

_"I dreamed for years of taking everything from you. The title, Thunderbrand, all of it. For me to be handed everything after all this time…"_

_He sank into a brief silence. Catherine glared at him; cautious and leery. Finally, Alexander shook his head._

_"I never wanted it like this." With those parting words, he disappeared out the door. Catherine felt her shoulders fall, sighing heavily. She ran a hand over her face. It wasn't a surprise, his feelings. Catherine had always known how he felt. How could she not? Alexander was not a subtle man, and his envy had been plain since their childhood. But to hear it laid out was quite different._

_Catherine collapsed onto the bed, fingers pressed to her brow. She did not stir, even as the sound of a latch broke the quiet. The telltale click of boots caught her attention._

_"Your guest?"_

_Catherine glanced up. Shamir was leaning against the wall opposite her. The woman's face was composed as ever, but a speculative gleam lay within violet eyes. Her partner was unnervingly shrewd, she had found. Something that both intrigued and annoyed the Knight._

_"Not anymore." Catherine mustered a smile. It felt tight and unnatural upon her face. "Just a man looking to stir up the past."_

_Shamir's stare thinned._

_"I heard you refer to him as Lord Charon." The woman stalked closer. Her movements were slow and careful, betraying her inherent grace. "Is that not your family name?"_

_"It was once, but no longer." Catherine watched as Shamir sat beside her, the bed dipping with the added weight. The woman had foregone her necklace, leaving her skin bare. This close, she could make out the faint scar that trailed like a tear down her partner's throat. Catherine tore her eyes away._

_"Technically, you can call him my brother. I just know him as Alexander, perpetual pain in my ass." Her mouth curled with wry affect._

_"You never mentioned having siblings." Shamir leveled her an even stare. It was prying, invasive in its scope. The archer often looked at her like this, as if Catherine was a puzzle for her to solve. Had it been any other time in her life, she might have even enjoyed the scrutiny. Cassandra had never been shy, and the attention of a pretty woman was nothing to sneer at. Even if Father disapproved and Christophe would have mocked—_

_Catherine gripped her thigh, nails biting deep. **Catherine. I am Catherine now.** These thoughts were only due to Alexander's unexpected visit. Seeing him again brought the girl she once was to the fore, but she couldn't allow that to happen again. Cassandra was dead and gone. She must be._

_"I have more than I care to," she said at last. "Only me and Alex are of the same mother. The rest belong to my Father's second wife. Unfortunately, none of us are particularly close. Noble families being what they are."_

_"Hm." Shamir's expression clouded slightly. Her profile looked pensive. "...I grew up in a large household as well."_

_Catherine perked, curiosity alighting._

_"I didn't realize. In all honesty, I pictured you as an only child."_

_"It's not that significant." The other woman crossed her legs, gaze averted. "The point is that I can understand. It's hard being the eldest."_

_"You as well, eh?" Catherine chuckled. "I can see that. Though now you have me desperate to know more."_

_"There's not much to say." Intense violet cut to her, sharp and full of warning. "It doesn't matter now. I left them all behind when I came here."_

_"And you don't want to go back home?" The Knight let her smile fall away. Catherine searched Shamir's face, uncertain as to the answer she wanted to hear. Or what she was looking for in the first place._

_"I don't think you can ever truly go back," her partner eventually admitted. "The home you want to return to is the one in your memory, but you can never go there. There will always be something different than you remember. A dislocation you can't quite describe."_

_"That's a pretty roundabout way of saying no." Catherine quirked a brow, thoughtful. "But I guess I get what you mean. Even if you were to return, that homesickness would never really leave. And what if you found it worse than how you left it?"_

_**Or worst of all, if nothing had changed and only you were left unrecognizable? **Unseen, a hand brushed against the relic. Catherine forced herself to focus, unwilling to entertain such a pointless notion. Her partner did not seem to notice her brief lapse._

_"I imagine you feel the same about Charon." Shamir sent her a measured look. The Knight was unable to deny the truth of that statement. She smiled again, this time wry and somewhat grave._

_“Maybe I do. It’s a moot point, however. The Knights are my home now.” She chanced a glimpse outside, where the window opened to a vast expanse of blue. Past the parapets and down the steppe, as trees kissed the forest floor. And where a man she had once called brother would disappear from her life._

_Catherine did not mourn him. Nor did she despair over the loss of title or land. She was content with this second chance she had been granted. No good had ever been done clinging to the past. Yet Cassandra, loathsome ghost, still yearned to reach for the life and family that had once been hers._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The jarring creak of iron ripped her from sleep. Catherine jolted awake, trying to see through the black expanse. Unthinking, she tried to tug her arms down only to feel the icy touch of metal against her wrists. Cuffed to the wall. They had put her in the dungeons it seemed. Catherine shrank back as a bright light came from above. A torch passed across her face, blinding her, then it drew away. She kept her gaze thin, trying to adjust to the sparse glow of fire.

Shapes flickered in and out of her sight. Deep crimson filtered in, and she snarled in reflex. But it was not the woman she thought it would be. Instead of the vile Emperor, her sister sauntered into view. Melaina merely glanced at the chained Knight, eyes lingering over the ruined calf. The pant leg had been ripped as they dragged the captured woman, baring the glossy spiral of scars beneath. Then she hummed softly.

“So you did not escape unscathed. I had wondered.” A nearby soldier brought the woman a stool. The noblewoman sat primly, flattening out the ruffles of her dress. “I noticed you were limping before. Is the damage irreparable?”

“Do you care?” Catherine spat hoarsely. Melaina lifted her chin, stare shifting into something analytical.

“I do, though you may believe me to be lying.” She pushed back an auburn curl. “We are family, tenuous as that bond has become.”

“Family? You mean the people you betrayed by siding with our enemies.” Catherine’s arms shook with anger as she tried to rail against the cuff. “Father and Alexander. Does their memory mean nothing?”

“Do not dare presume to know my thoughts, or my pain.” Long, painted nails scraped unpleasantly across an iron key. “I keep both of them dear to my heart. But the dead are long gone. My efforts are focused on the rest of our family, of whom you are a part of.”

“And yet you chain me here.” Catherine bristled, upper lip curled. “Planning to offer me up to the Emperor? Or will you do away with me now?”

“That depends entirely on you.” Melaina held the key up to the dim light. “If you answer my questions to my satisfaction, I may grant you freedom. Perhaps what little assistance I can.”

“And if I do not play your little game?”

“Then I will decide your fate here and now.” The key fell into the hands of her guard. The man bowed before whisking himself away to the cell entrance. _Silver-armor. Kingdom standard issue, not Imperial._ Catherine took this in silently, before drifting back to the expectant woman.

“Fine. I’ll bite.”

Melaina smiled.

“Wonderful. Now that we’re in accord...” She leaned back in her chair, legs crossing with practiced aplomb. “Let’s start with why you came here. After all, you gave up your family name when you joined the Knights of Seiros. Yet here you are.”

The woman sighed, fingers tapping away in her lap.

“Honestly, Cassandra, what were you thinking? Did you think we would embrace you after all this time?”

“I didn’t think you would embrace the Empire.” Catherine bristled. “So we’re both surprised, aren’t we?”

Her sister’s eyes flashed with annoyance.

“That isn’t an answer. I suggest you stick to the question at hand, lest my patience finds its end.”

“I came here to seek aid.” The Knight relented, gritting her teeth. “The Emperor cannot be allowed free reign over Fόdlan. She is a kin-slayer, a murderous wretch, and a treasonous heathen who—”

“Her Majesty has done a great many things to secure her throne.” Melaina interrupted, waving an airy hand. “The death of our father and brother were an _unfortunate_ casualty. One I bear great enmity towards her for. However, the logic was sound.”

“How can you call what she did logical?!” Catherine seethed. Her sister was unmoved. The other woman plucked a piece of lint from her garb.

“Our House controls the great majority of metal which moves within Fόdlan. At the time, King Dimitri needed to be dealt with. So that was what Her Majesty did.” Blue eyes stared dispassionately from the dark.

“After the two eldest males passed, the Lordship should have fallen to Argus. But our uncle, the former Lord Gideon as you recall, took his chance and seized Charon under our brother’s name. He served Her Majesty well, feigning a dry spell for the mines as the King called for supply. It turned out to be a brilliant scheme, and a large part of her victory in Fhirdiad could be attributed to this move.”

“You almost sound in awe of her.” Catherine cringed. She felt a sickening lurch in her gut.

“I am,” Melaina admitted easily. “I also respect her a great deal, as one must when confronted by a superior foe. There is no harm in conceding defeat when clearly outmatched. A lesson you should learn, Cassandra.”

“Don’t speak as if we are close. The sister I remember would never have sided with a woman like Edelgard.”

“And why not?” Melaina looked at her nails in faux thought. “We’re both strong, self-made women. Both rulers in our own right too. I dare to say our values are quite similar, in fact.”

“Rule...” Catherine caught the word quickly, trying to process the implication. “You’re Lord of Charon? What happened to Gideon?”

“He was disposed of, like every tool that outlives its usefulness.” The woman shrugged lightly, brushing aside the seeming demise of her uncle. “Truthfully, he was an opportunistic rat. I would have done the same.”

“What about Argus? He holds the Crest of Charon.”

“That’s the beautiful thing about the Emperor’s reforms. A crest no longer equates to divine rule.” Melaina’s mouth twitched with visible satisfaction. “Now, you must prove yourself to Her Majesty within a year’s time before being given anything. If the ruling House cannot demonstrate worth and capability, all land and holdings will be seized.”

“You’re not worried our home might be taken?” Catherine glowered; baleful. Her sister crossed her legs again, blatantly unconcerned.

“Her Majesty has been most courteous. A year to prove my worth is not a great tax, and I have vested interest in keeping Charon in our family’s hold. In any case, I was the only one of us that actually cared about learning from Father. You were too busy playing soldier, and Alexander had his nose in everything besides ruling.”

“So this is what you’ve become.” Catherine laughed; a short bark of scorn. “Incredible... The girl who used to trip over her own feet now rules all of Charon at the behest of a heretical Emperor. How laughable.”

“Now you’re just being petulant.” Melaina tilted her head, long hair spilling over her shoulders. Her expression changed into a pensive mask. “I grew up, Cassy. As all children eventually do. The girl who nipped at yours and Alexander’s heels is gone. Just as the sister I adored is gone.”

“Excuse me?” Catherine blinked, uncertain how to react to that statement.

“Did you not know that?” The woman’s smile turned faintly melancholic. “I did, you know. We all did, even Alexander. Oh, he played the envious little brother well enough. But in the end, he loved you. So much.”

Catherine swallowed, unable to speak. Her sister continued on; voice soft and contemplative.

“Never a day went by when he did not speak of you. How things should have been. How you would have reacted to some such thing or another. Father just stopped speaking much at all. And I... I missed you terribly.” Melaina rose and knelt by the bound woman. The steel in her gaze had gone, and in its place was a deep sadness. “You always had time for me. When Father was too busy, and my Mother too lost in her bitterness. Was it any wonder I looked to you?”

“You’re trying to manipulate me.” Catherine looked away. “It won’t work. Whatever you have planned, just get to it. I’ll not suffer the fake sympathies of a traitor.”

“Is that what you think?” She heard the woman stand once more. “You know, Mother used to command me to watch Alexander and yourself. To measure the difference between children with crests and those without. She _hated_ that Father paid more mind to the two of you.”

“And? Did you secretly despise us after all?” Catherine glanced back at the woman. To her surprise, Melaina was focused on the straw-covered floor.

“No. If anything it made me grow fonder.” Blue eyes lifted, and suddenly Catherine could see the faintest glimmer of tears. “I believed in you. We all did. When Rufus Blaiddyd came for your head, we never once thought you capable of cold-blooded murder. Yet what do you do? You join the Knights, dashing our trust, and confirming to the world your guilt.”

“Moreau was a mistake. One I needed to atone for.” Catherine replied, the fight draining from her. She thought back to that terrible day, still feeling the blood of her countrymen upon on her hands. “If that implicated me for what happened in Duscur, so be it. I found my true path serving the Goddess. You can’t fault me for that.”

“Charon was yours to rule. Not Alexander. Not Uncle Gideon. Not me.” Melaina cleared her throat, wiping her face. “One last question. And I need you to answer me honestly.”

Catherine did not respond. She chose to wait, too emotionally exhausted for anything else.

“Do you still hold divine duty above family? Do you still choose to be Thunder Catherine above Cassandra of Charon?”

She felt the inquiry like a physical blow. Catherine, for that was who she was, stared up at the woman numbly. Then she bit her tongue until it bled, averting her gaze to the cell walls. A lie might be enough to free her, though that was not a guarantee. In the end, the Knight could not bring herself to say anything other than the truth.

“Cassandra is dead.” Her eyes went to the grisly pattern of scars covering her leg. “I buried her the day I took my vows. I’m sorry, Mel.”

Her sister said nothing for a long while. Then she heard her step away, the iron door closing at the woman's back.

“Then there is nothing left to talk about. Tomorrow, I will inform the Emperor about your capture and leave it up to her what she does with you.” Another pause came and went. “May the Goddess find your soul worthy, Catherine.”

The Knight closed her eyes, heart heavy, as the light faded. Only the lonesome dark remained.

**Next Chapter: Drifting**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter got away from me lengthwise, so sorry about the delay! And a bit of a bear in content. Hopefully, it doesn't come across as too clunky. Catherine's backstory is something I've been hankering to explore, mostly because there's so little of it in canon. She's a noblewoman who was implicated in the Tragedy of Duscur, but the specifics were never given (or maybe I'm just not remembering correctly?). As for her family, we get absolutely nothing save that she has siblings. Admittedly, most of this chapter was just me wanting peak family drama and Charon stuff. I hope you folks enjoyed the ride nonetheless!
> 
> If you are frustrated with how dumb Cat is, you're not alone. But this will be the last time she's THIS stupid I promise. As for what Shamir is going to do...you'll have to wait until next time. I would love to know where you think this is going, and also what you thought about some of these creative decisions. Much love to all of you~ AdraCat


	6. Drifting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequence of haste. The nature of stagnation. A woman tries to keep afloat amidst both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you everyone for all the comments and kudos! Much love to my editor, johnxfire~

_“They seem to like her.”_

_Shamir stilled, cup hovering just shy of her lips. She turned to look at the woman by her side. Catherine was frowning at the dance floor, gaze trained upon the figure whirling across the tiles. Professor Byleth was currently being led in an elegant waltz. She was surprisingly fluid, though the whole affair was slightly marred by the woman’s neutral expression. The boy who served as her partner looked happy enough._

_“She’s a good instructor,” Shamir commented eventually. She placed the wine glass to her lips. “Patient. Level-headed. It doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive.”_

_“Attractive?” Catherine made a faint noise of aggravation. “I suppose if you catch her in the right light. Still, that’s not what the students should be concentrating on.”_

_“They’re young and inherently ruled by fleeting passions.” Shamir glanced at the dancing pair. It was clear the boy was attempting to hold a conversation. But from his flushed cheeks, the endeavor was going rather poorly. Byleth merely looked at him, stare vacant as ever. “It’s harmless. If she were encouraging them it would be a different story.”_

_“Maybe.” The Knight muttered, peeved. She had doffed her armor for the evening, leaving her arms wonderfully bare. Shamir eyed the hard cords of muscle discreetly, before letting her eyes rove. Tall and straight-backed, Catherine cut quite the figure amid the busy hall. With her hair free, there was a certain wild edge to her presence; dangerous yet sensual all the same. More than a few had taken notice, but Shamir was certain her partner didn’t realize. Or she had chosen to ignore it._

_“I’m surprised, Catherine.” The Dagdan woman let her voice slip into wry contemplation. “I thought you could empathize. Weren’t there any handsome professors when you attended?”_

_“What? No!” Catherine sputtered, a light flush racing across her cheeks. Upon seeing Shamir’s amusement, her embarrassment cooled. “They were all old, pompous windbags who talked too much. And even if there were, I wouldn’t have been interested.”_

_“You’re not attracted to intelligence?” Shamir presented the question carefully, feigning nonchalance. She did not want the woman to see the depths of her interest. Thankfully, her partner took the inquiry at face value._

_“Sure, I guess. But most academics I’ve known have been insufferable.” Catherine rubbed her jaw thoughtfully. “I get on better with fellow soldiers. People who can understand what I’ve gone through; not just in theory.”_

_“By that logic, you should get along with our newest professor. Or is your loathing for her completely singular?”_

_“I don’t hate her.” Her gaze clouded, darting once to the woman in question. “It’s hard to describe what I feel. She’s hard-working and honest, both traits I hold in high regard. Yet whenever we speak, I feel on edge. There’s something not... **right** about her. I can’t put it any other way.”_

_“Hmm.” Shamir polished off her wine, setting it down. She shook her head as a passing servant tried to refill the glass. In the distance, Byleth was nodding politely to her former dance partner. Then the woman was seized by Claude, the future Duke smiling in his secretive way. A glimmer of silver caught Shamir’s attention. Edelgard was watching the pair with narrowed eyes, expression fixed. Her Imperial Highness did not look pleased in the slightest. Popular woman, indeed._

_“She is quite exceptional. It’s been an interesting experience serving under her.” Shamir baited. She hid a satisfied smirk as Catherine bristled. The Knight’s jaw bunched, muscle leaping underneath swarthy skin. The archer’s words had been intentionally provocative and the subsequent reaction did not disappoint._

_“You’re being rather free with your compliments. Should I take that as you being interested in her as well?” Catherine’s gaze was hard as she set her drink aside. The liquid sloshed violently, nearly spilling off the edge._

_“Could be.” Shamir looked on as Byleth bowed out of her current dance. The woman seemed to be searching for something, or perhaps someone. Shamir cast an eye for the Imperial heir. Edelgard had vanished into the crowd, but that was no great surprise. Abruptly, Catherine attempted to garner her attention with a pointed cough._

_“If you’re so enamored, perhaps you should ask for a dance?” Irritation dripped from every word, but so did an underlying challenge. She felt Catherine’s stare like a brand, daring her to act. Shamir tilted her head and pretended to think._

_“You’re right. If you’ll excuse me...” The Dagdan woman took a step in the wandering professor’s direction, only to be pulled back. Strong hands seized her elbows, keeping her still. Reflexively, her fingers curled around her partner’s waist. She looked up into steely blue. _ _Close as they were, Shamir could spot the shards of grey that lanced through the color; like stones glinting beneath a river. She cleared her head of the imagery, knowing it was the absurd musings of an inebriated mind._

_“Don’t tease.” Catherine frowned down at her, fair brows arching. “You’re not genuinely interested, are you?”_

_“Is that something you should concern yourself with?” Shamir reached up, fingers brushing playfully past feathery bangs. “It could be that I just want a dance.”_

_“...With her?”_

_“Maybe.” She tugged once on her partner’s jerkin. “Or it could be I’m waiting for someone else to ask.”_

_This was playing with fire, Shamir knew. They had grown closer in recent months; far more than mere friendship warranted. Catherine had been incessant in her concern each time they went on separate missions; despondent upon her leave and all too eager upon her return. With the Knight’s response to her implication about marriage... Well, it had been more than encouraging._

_It was enough for the tenuous hope she harbored to grow into confident assurance. As a result, Shamir had taken to pressing their interactions beyond the platonic. It was hard to say if her affections were returned, but her partner’s response had been reassuring. She watched, pleased, as Catherine flushed again._

_“Shamir...” The woman looked at the dancing crowd with vague unease. Then she licked her lips and nodded stiffly. “Very well. You want a dance? You’ll get a dance.”_

_“Good.”_

_Shamir tugged her to the middle of the room quickly. She wouldn’t allow the other woman to change her mind. Catherine’s eyes were wide, but she did not protest. Patiently, Shamir slid her arms around her partner’s neck._

_“Will you lead?” She sidled close. “Or should I?”_

_Catherine blinked, clearly hesitant. Then she huffed, but her lips quirked into a smile. The Knight began to sway in time with the lilting beat. Shamir relaxed into her hold._

_“You’re in an odd mood.” Fingers slid carefully to her back, pressure light as a feather. Her partner’s gaze was prying, and more than a little bemused. “...Everything you said before. Did you mean it?”_

_“About?” Shamir kept her tone even. She looked up into Catherine’s face, enjoying the play of candlelight upon those fine features. There was something to be said for Fόdlan breeding, as odious the practice could be._

_“Byleth.” Catherine’s mouth twisted as she said the name. “You called her exceptional.”_

_“I did. And she is.” Shamir let the statement sit for a time. Her amusement grew as blue eyes darkened to irked sapphire. Taking pity, the Dagdan woman completed the thought. “However, I meant it in a purely military capacity. She’s an incredible strategist. All the Black Eagles have flourished under her tutelage.”_

_“Oh...” Catherine appeared genuinely taken aback for a moment. She recovered swiftly, if with a sheepish grin. “Of course that’s what you meant. I shouldn’t have implied otherwise.”_

_“No, but I didn’t mind.” Shamir trailed her hand along a tense shoulder. Locks of gold brushed her skin, eliciting sparks of sensation. “Jealousy looks good on you.”_

_Catherine scoffed, but she did not deny the claim. Instead, she let the conversation fade and led them around the room. As they sank into silence, Shamir allowed her eyes to close. It was terribly weak of her, to let down her guard like this. Yet she could not stop herself from sinking into the taller woman’s arms. Her partner. **אהובי**._

_Something ached in her breast, reminding her of another time. A different partner. There had never been soft moments such as these. Solomon had been a hard man in many ways. Loving, yes, but he was not prone to sentiment. Their lives had been difficult and constantly in motion; a path they chose and strained to maintain. Their love was the same; understood but not something to languish in. In her complacency, she had taken it for granted. Shamir dipped her head, nose skimming along a warm throat._

_Catherine stiffened at first. Then she settled and swallowed visibly. Shamir pressed her forehead to the woman’s collar, biting back a smile. This was the closest they had been, and her heart thrilled with each point of contact. Even if it was only for this dance, the Dagdan woman was content. She breathed in, taking in the distinctive scent of her partner’s soap. Crisp and woodsy, like sandalwood._

_She yearned for more. To lean up and taste everything the woman had to offer. To intertwine her hands within that mane of hair and press her close. But a Church ball surrounded by children was not the most romantic of places. And despite the signs of attraction her partner displayed, a sliver of uncertainty remained. So Shamir took what was offered, not wishing to break the peace they had found._

_Catherine had not denied her and that was more than enough._

  
  


  
  


* * *

  
  


Shamir did not often wake past the sunrise. Her body was attuned to the cycle of day and had been for years. It was a unique experience to open her eyes and feel the wash of the sun across her cheek. She blinked, adjusting, and looked up into the bright daylight. That proved to be a mistake. Shamir hissed, feeling a sharp pain behind her eyes and throughout her head. She covered her face quickly.

_Why am I…? _Realization came slow, dulled by an excruciating throb in her temple. She and Catherine had been talking, hadn’t they? No, not merely talking. There had been a shared drink; bitter and stale, but serviceable enough. Catherine had been quiet as well. Abnormally so. Keen eyes had stared at her so intently as if expecting something. Shamir inhaled sharply.

Shaking her head clear, the Dagdan woman staggered to her feet. Her mind felt dull; glazed and uncooperative. Carefully, she trudged over to their supplies and fished out her canteen. Then she emptied it across her brow. The water was cold from the chilled morning air and sparked much-needed clarity.

She threw the canteen aside and searched the camp. As she expected, Catherine was not in sight. A curious mix of ire and biting fear roiled within her breast. Her bow and dagger were still by the fire, and the rest of their supplies looked intact. But if the woman had not gone with the intention of fighting, why had she left? Shamir scowled and cast her gaze down the slope.

Their horse was gone. Not a surprising development, but an irritation nonetheless. What had Catherine been thinking? Shamir cut that thought short, frustrated beyond reason. The foolish woman _hadn’t_ been thinking, that much was clear. With the Empire lurking around Charon, Catherine might have been taken already — if she hadn’t been killed yet.

_No._ Shamir would not consider such a thing. If nothing else, the Empire would desire her as a hostage. One last example to be made in the wake of a ruined Church. Steeling herself, the archer gathered her weapons and made her way to the forest floor. The ground was dry and free of grass, revealing a trail of hoof prints. They led unmistakably to the center of Charon. Right where Catherine had said her family estate was located.

Her partner was as predictable as she was aggravating. Shamir straightened, eyes fixed to the sky. It was late morning, but the sun had yet to reach its zenith. Plenty of daylight for her to search, but also enough for the Empire to see her in return. She would need to tread carefully, lest she be captured as well.

It was not a difficult task even with the sparse track of prints, nor did it take her long to venture within the central wood of Charon. Only a handful of hours passed before she spotted the towering stone gate which wrapped around the estate perimeter. She kneeled at the top of a nearby hill, careful to keep her body low.

A swarm of black and silver milled around each post. Two great towers arched above the trees, one to the south and the other to the north. Countless trails of smoke mingled with the clouds. Imperial camps, numerous and undoubtedly armed en masse. If the nobles of House Charon were not allied with the Emperor, they were hostages at the very least. Catherine’s odds of evading such dense patrols were slim, brash and impetuous as she was.

Shamir retreated, taking her bow in hand. She had not planned to fight her way through heavily armored troops. Her arrows were few and her head was still muddled from the night previous. This was an assured recipe for disaster considering the circumstance. Hopefully, if Catherine had indeed been captured, the Empire was keeping her somewhere nearby. The large encampment they had spotted upon their arrival was a good place to start.

A sound came from the left, sharp and hollow like splitting wood. Shamir whirled, arrow drawn and nocked, aiming it through the trees. Her eyes searched, trying to see past conifer trunk and underbrush. The glint of metal came first; an opposing arrowhead aimed upon her person. Then came a figure bedecked in varying shades of orange from the fiery drape of hair to the buckled waistcoat.

Leonie Pinelli. Former Alliance villager turned Imperial soldier. Shamir cursed her muddled senses. She should have been able to hear the other woman coming long before being spotted. At least the feeling appeared to be mutual.

“Shamir!” Leonie was gaping, tawny stare incredulous. Her bow dropped to her side, much to the Dagdan woman’s confusion. “I-Is that really you?”

Shamir kept her bow ready, unwilling to cede ground to a possible combatant. The younger woman seemed to notice this, and her surprise quickly changed into disappointment.

“Hey, I’m not going to shoot. I swear.” She shouldered her weapon with a wavering smile. “We might have been enemies, but the war is over. I’m not going to gut you for nothing.”

“...I was under the impression the Empire would want my head.” Shamir slowly released the string, arrow resting harmlessly within her hand. She kept her eyes upon the other archer. “I did serve Rhea.”

“Sure, but things change. Besides, you were only doing as your employer wanted. Any mercenary would do the same.” Leonie scratched her cheek. “Heh! That and we saw you bailing in Fhirdiad. I figure any person who has the sense to run from that mess deserves some consideration.”

The soldier paused, her features taking a solemn cast.

“All that fire… Honestly, I didn’t think the Archbishop capable of something so horrific. It makes you think, you know? How much someone can hide beneath a pleasant smile.”

“It happens more often than you think.” Unwittingly, Shamir’s thoughts turned to her former employer. Rhea’s instability hadn’t been a great shock. The woman was secretive and kept her followers at a distance. Even her firmest supporters could not say they knew her completely. To most, Rhea had been the sole light in a world of encroaching dark. The Dagdan woman never embraced such a naive line of thinking.

The years Shamir had spent working in the shadows at her behest had robbed her of that. A person who commanded such gruesome works could never be innocent. The simple truth was Rhea had been capable of great cruelty and all in the name of her silent Goddess. Yet at the very end, the venerated Archbishop was nothing more than a woman drowning beneath faith and station. Ruined by her mortal feelings, dragon or not.

Even then, Shamir could not bring herself to feel pity. The horrors of Fhirdiad were too fresh, and the ceaseless zealotry the woman had inspired continued to be a nuisance. Catherine’s devotion was only the sour cherry atop of everything else Shamir could not forgive.

“That’s all past us now, right? No more dragons to slay here.” Leonie appeared to unwind, her smile widening. “But it’s so good to see you! To tell you the truth, I was really disappointed when Alois rode into camp without you. After the whole tomb siege and everything.”

“I was paid to guard Garreg Mach. I couldn’t abandon my job in favor of some silly rebellion.”

“Sure, I get that.” The young woman bobbed her head, but she did not look convinced. Leonie scratched her cheek thoughtfully. “But you know, Edelgard would have taken you in. Probably paid you tons better too. I just thought maybe you had other reasons for staying.”

“Like?” Shamir crossed her arms, keeping her features placid. She stared at the soldier evenly.

“Well, you and Catherine were pretty close, weren’t you?” Leonie offered a hesitant look. “There were a ton of rumors back in the day, harmless mind you, but after the ball—”

“It was only a dance.” Gloved fingers wrapped tight around the grip. Shamir did not wish to relive that disastrous night. Everything had changed in a single impulsive moment. Catherine, strangely pliant and yielding. The brief joy she had found within her arms. And the last contact between them; when brisk mountain air contrasted with warm skin. Shamir pushed back the unwanted memories. “We worked well as partners, but it never extended past that.”

“Sure, I guess.” Leonie’s expression fell, shifting into something less at ease. “Um... Speaking of Catherine, that’s sort of why we’re here.”

“Pardon?” Shamir looked up sharply. Her hand twitched, yearning to nock her arrow. Leonie remained oblivious. The younger woman winced, before averting her eyes to the ground.

“After the fire was finally put out, there was very little to recover. That includes bodies and the like.” Leonie glanced up apologetically. Her gaze was earnest and filled with sympathy. “Thunderbrand was found, and so was a body near it. We couldn’t be certain, but from the breastplate...”

“You think it was Catherine.” Shamir mulled over the news in silence. If they thought Catherine was dead, that meant the woman hadn’t been captured. At least, as of yet. It also meant the Empire was not looking for either of them as fugitives. She pressed her lips together to prevent a relieved exhale. Could their luck shift so absolutely?

“Yeah. I’m sorry. Maybe you weren’t… er, _involved_, but you were still friends.” Leonie shook her head, the tail of her hair catching the wind. “Anyway, we came to bring the body back to House Charon. Her Majesty thought it would be the appropriate thing to do and the Professor agreed.”

“Professor?” Shamir stilled, focusing on the title. “Are you referring to Byleth?”

“Of course!” Leonie smiled brightly. “It might be a little silly to keep saying that, but it feels weird calling her anything else. I guess General works too, but that sounds way too stiff.”

The Dagdan woman wasn’t listening, too preoccupied with that revelation. She had wondered if the former professor survived. Considering the last time she saw both her and Edelgard, it had seemed improbable. A mix of relief and aggravation flooded her. They hadn’t been particularly close, but she had enjoyed the other woman’s companionship. Her quiet strength had been reassuring, of a kind with the man she so resembled. Yet she could not entirely enjoy this new information. Byleth was a great ally to have and an even greater foe. The Emperor was sure to keep her close; a distant threat but one all the same. Just one more incentive to keep Catherine out of the Empire’s hands.

“Were you assigned only to this one task?” Shamir stole a glance at the numerous Imperial soldiers patrolling the area. “This seems like a significant force for mere corpse delivery.”

“Huh?” The young woman blinked rapidly. “Uh. No, actually. Truthfully, Charon is a side trip. The Emperor wanted us to move into Galatea and deal with the nobles there. They aren’t too pleased about the new state of affairs, though it’s mostly been Ingrid’s father doing the grumbling.”

“And is she with you?” Shamir slung her bow around her back, forcing her tone to remain casual. Leonie eyed her with a slight frown.

“She’s back at the main camp. Why?”

“No particular reason.” Shamir took in the younger woman’s measure. Their build was not too dissimilar, and their height was comparable. Her eyes darted down to the cloak wrapped around Leonie’s waist. “Have you been summoned by the ruling Lord of Charon? Your camp is a ways west of here, correct?”

“Uh, yeah. I was going to meet the Lord soon. She has some news for us, apparently.” Leonie fell quiet, her gaze taking a wary glint. That expression deepened upon the Dagdan woman’s approach. “...Shamir, why exactly are _you_ here?”

“The same reason as you. I have a job that needs to be done.” A pause came, followed by a regretful sigh. “It was good to see you. Captain Jeralt would have been proud.”

Leonie relaxed, her grin making a triumphant return.

“You think? The Professor says so too but–”

Swiftly, Shamir reached around the young woman’s neck and bashed her head into a nearby tree. Leonie’s skull careened violently into the trunk with a crack. Her body slid to the forest floor, limp. Shamir kneeled close, cupping her hand over the soldier’s mouth. She was still breathing, alive if thoroughly knocked out. Hopefully, she would stay that way until Catherine was retrieved.

Shamir untied the felled woman’s cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She sent Leonie one last look, mouth pursed. It was strange to think of the path she could have taken all those years ago and the possible camaraderie she had only glimpsed upon assisting the Black Eagles. Byleth, Leonie, even Edelgard. If Shamir’s heart had not been set, where would her steps have carried her? Against the Church certainly, but that did not bring any particular sting.

But if she had defected, would that path have set her against Catherine? In another, more unfortunate life, the body they carried might have indeed been her. Dead and gone, yet finally put to rest. Some would call that better, and she might have believed it once. But Shamir had embraced her selfishness. She would not give Catherine away simply because her goddess demanded it.

Shamir turned on her heel and strode towards the estate. They would make it through this world together. Even if her partner was determined to do otherwise. _טיפש ועקשן__, __אבל בכל זאת שלי__._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The main gate of House Charon was blocked by a barricade of steel. While the Empire had the estate perimeter surrounded, the soldiers who stood at attention were wearing the colors of the former Kingdom. They eyed the strange cloaked woman warily as she approached. Shamir kept her head tilted forward, hood masking most of her features. It was an imperfect disguise, but most people were content with outward appearances. The guards were no different.

They stopped her initially, but with a flash of her bow and an utterance of the Eagle’s name they allowed her to pass. The garish nature of Leonie’s garb was not easily forgotten; a fact she abused to full effect. After gaining entrance, it had been a simple matter to inquire after the Lord’s location.

“Her Lordship often takes tea in the courtyard this time of day,” one servant helpfully provided. Then the man led her to the back of the estate, gabbing quite freely about his master’s family. Shamir memorized every name he uttered, all the while inspecting the Charon grounds. The estate was sprawling, and each building a testament to the disgusting amount of wealth their House had amassed.

One would think they would invest in more thorough security, considering the tragedy their house had suffered. But it was most likely a symptom of their recent alliance with the Empire. After all, what sort of fool would trifle with such a significant force? House Charon was content with their lot, something Shamir recognized well. Whatever the extent of their relationship, it was clear the House was not being held hostage. And Catherine, overeager in her desire for revenge, had probably been unable to recognize that.

Shamir palmed her dagger, sliding it up her sleeve. The servant bowed politely upon reaching the courtyard’s inner gate. Then he quickly walked away, leaving the woman alone with his unwitting master. Shamir looked around the expansive space, and observed the ornate hedge plot and carved wooden furniture. Grand and ostentatious as everything else in this place. And there, in the central gazebo, a woman in a maroon dress sat.

She was writing something, hand flying over paper. Long, auburn hair masked her features. Shamir reached back for the gate, pulling it firmly closed. The creak of metal appeared to garner the woman’s attention. Her quill stopped, hand falling still.

“Argus, is that you?” The woman’s head rose. “Has Captain Leonie arrived yet? She should be here quite soon.”

Shamir crept near, steps light.

“Argus?” Suddenly, the woman stood and began to turn. “Is there something...”

Her words trailed into nothing as cold steel was pressed to her throat. Shamir wrapped her other arm around thin shoulders, letting the edge of her blade sit along pale skin.

“Scream and I slit your throat.” She pressed harder, a mindful warning. The woman’s body locked, even her breaths coming to a sudden halt. Shamir felt her swallow beneath the dagger’s touch.

“I don’t know what you want or who’s paying you.” The woman began tremulously. “But if it’s coin you’re after—”

“I’m not after gold. And no one is paying me.” Shamir shoved her down, forcing the woman back into her chair. She slid her dagger around to the back of her neck. “I have questions that need answering.”

“Such as?” The woman raised her chin, a defiant motion that was somewhat ruined by her shaking figure. She had never faced the threat of an assassin’s blade and it showed.

“Last night, a woman came to your door. You took her prisoner, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Shamir dug the dagger point into her nape, not enough to pierce but near enough. The woman balled her hands tight atop the table.

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t have the patience for it.” The Dagdan woman whispered darkly. A tense silence passed as the noble appeared to think. Then she sighed, a heavy thing which shook her frame.

“All this for Cassandra? Honestly, the Church is far more persistent than I gave it credit for.”

“I’m not part of the Church,” Shamir replied in reflex. Despite herself, palpable disdain colored her tone. She felt the woman crane her head in interest.

“Oh? Then perhaps we might speak like the civilized folk we are. **Without **the need for violence.”

Shamir drew back, considering. She did not want to spill the blood of Catherine’s kin. Empire aside, she wasn’t sure how her partner would respond. Deciding to humor the woman, Shamir sheathed her dagger. She skirted the table, taking the opposite seat from the noble. As their eyes met, a sense of familiarity sparked. The woman was slighter of build than Catherine, and her features more angular. However, the hue of her gaze was the same clear blue.

“Melaina of House Charon, Lord of the region, but you might have already guessed.” The woman brushed off her dress. Shamir did not miss the quiver of her fingers. “If negotiations are to be had, shall I have your name?”

The archer refused to respond, staring neutrally into the noble’s face. Melaina nodded airily.

“I see. You’re a careful sort, aren’t you? But that’s just as well.” She folded her hands across her lap. “That cloak is Captain Leonie’s, isn’t it? Does she still live?”

“It’s possible.” Shamir favored the woman with a pointed stare. “Would you like to know specifics? I could demonstrate.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Consider me suitably intimidated.” The woman smiled; thin and wan. “I must say, I never thought anyone would come after my sister. You must care for her.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Shamir said bluntly. The noble nodded, slow and cautious.

“Then I’m happy she has at least one person left. Sadly, I must say that your commitment must go unrewarded.” Melaina leaned back into her chair, eyes thinning. “I can’t hand her over to you. Slit my throat, if you must, but the arrangements have been made.”

“I don’t much care about any _arrangements_ you have in place.” Shamir scoffed, curling her hand around her weapon once more. “You think I’m prepared to only kill you? Don’t be naive.”

“What?” The woman’s affected calm slipped, terror running across her painted face.

“Helen and Aethra. Your sisters, both married to neighboring lords. Then there’s Argus, the youngest of House Charon, of whom currently resides here in Charon.” Shamir shot a glance at the main house behind them. “It would be a tragedy for your House to completely be erased. It wouldn’t take much effort, either. You know that just as I do.”

“Are you threatening a _child_?”

“I would do more than threaten.” The Dagdan woman’s tone dripped with veiled warning. She did not look away, holding the noble’s startled glare. “Considering you are ready to hurt someone I care for, should I not be allowed to do the same?”

“My sister’s fate is hardly decided.”

“You say that, and yet are ready to toss her to the Empire.” Shamir gestured towards the letter. “That’s what this is, or am I wrong?”

“Despite your suggestion to the contrary...” The noblewoman sniffed, ruby lips twisting into an unpleasant curl. “I care for my sister’s well-being immensely. However, I am aware that she cannot be allowed to roam amuck. Placing her in Imperial custody is a better fate than the alternative.”

“You give her to them, the only fate she’ll be granted lies at the end of a headman’s axe. If not the Emperor herself.”

“Her Majesty is not without mercy.” Melaina frowned. Yet a trace of uncertainty lingered upon her face. “She granted the same consideration to every opponent she faced. Those that surrendered have lost nothing save pride.”

“And do you think Catherine would ever kneel before the Emperor?”

“She must. If the choice is either survival or death–”

“Perhaps the girl you knew would have made that distinction. But the woman I know now will not give in.”

_The anger that burned without end. The pain as Catherine writhed in the midst of fever, pleading for the Lady she had served. Tumbling over and over into the ground, desperate to reclaim that which she had lost._

Catherine would not bow before the Emperor. No matter the generosity or concessions Edelgard granted, the stubborn woman would die before accepting any of it. It would not be tyranny that killed the Knight. It would be her unflinching loyalty to the woman and cause she still mourned.

“You know this, and yet you continue to enable her?” The noblewoman stared at Shamir, brows dipping with consternation. “Even if you’re right, her death is still assured. Delayed, but certain all the same. What exactly do you earn by trailing at her side?”

“She’s my partner, as I am hers. I don’t need a greater reason.” Shamir stood, hand still resting upon her dagger. “Enough of this talk. Tell me where you’re keeping her.”

The noblewoman’s expression shifted, something that might have been disappointment glimpsed in her eyes. Then, after a long period of silence, Melaina gathered up the letter she had been writing. The paper hovered over a nearby candle, flames devouring the sheet. It crumpled to the table in blackened strips.

“Within the manor cellar, you will see an iron door. Beyond that, House Charon’s personal cells lie.” A dark key was pulled out and set upon the table. “My sister will be in the easternmost one. Are you satisfied?”

“Immensely.” Shamir tucked the key into her coat. “Should I repeat the consequences of calling for aid? Or would you prefer to be silenced?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll say nothing of these events, nor reach out to the Emperor.” The noble grimaced, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m not a fighter or a simpleton. You got this far on your merits; I would not like to challenge them further. But should you be thwarted, I’ll not lift a hand to assist.”

Shamir pondered the words, observing the woman’s body language. She did not appear to be lying. Neither did she seem eager to yell for her guards. Content the Charon noble would keep her word, Shamir turned to leave.

“One final word, if you please.”

She stopped in her progress, gaze falling back on the other woman. Melaina was not looking at her. Instead, the noble was staring off into the distance.

“I don’t know the extent of your relationship. If it’s anything like I assume, you know that this cannot carry on forever. Running away doesn’t solve anything.” The woman’s face grew pensive. “Some people naturally succeed without an anchor, but I’m starting to understand my sister isn’t one of them. Still, it’s not a healthy thing to cling to something so strongly. You should be careful that she doesn’t drag you under.”

“Are you done?” Shamir spun to face the main house. She heard the noble huff, but it lacked any choler.

“Go on and proceed in your ill-advised rescue. But should you make it free of Charon, may I suggest something?” Melaina paused, likely hoping for a response. Shamir did not give her one. The younger woman went on nonetheless. “Head somewhere north. Sreng, if you must. The Empire will not spread their forces thin with winter so close at hand.”

“We’ll consider it,” Shamir replied curtly. Then she strode away, leaving Catherine’s sister alone. Perhaps that decision would bite her in the near future, but she wouldn’t hesitate any longer. Her partner was waiting, and she would never dream of disappointing her. The rest, they could figure out much later. Preferably when they were not surrounded by Imperial troops.

Yet a phrase the woman said did linger within her mind. _Drag me under…?_ Shamir grit her teeth, jaw aching along with her restless heart. The woman was wrong. Catherine was not some onerous weight to bear. She clutched the pommel of her blade, taking solace in the rasp of leather. A far off memory called; one that followed her down into the dark corners of the Charon cells.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_“Shamir, might I have a moment of your time?”_

_The Dagdan woman raised her head, pausing in her task. She had been preoccupied fletching her arrows in the Knight’s Hall; a chore she did not often have time for in the bustle of day. Slightly irritated, Shamir looked up from her tools and met a serious stare. It was Edelgard, standing over her with arms folded. It was a curious happenstance, considering the girl had never sought her out before. Typically, their interactions were curt affairs with little in the way of words. On the rare occasions they did speak, it was usually in the field._

_“What do you need?” Shamir exhaled discreetly, careful not to reveal her exasperation. Lavender eyes narrowed._

_“I’m merely curious about your origins. Truthfully, I know very little other than your past as a mercenary and your Dagdan heritage.”_

_“What I choose to share is my business.” She eyed the girl in a pointed sweep. Edelgard straightened upon the quick perusal._

_“Perhaps so, but I think I am entitled to a certain amount of concern. Considering the respective history between our nations, I would like to know your thoughts.” The girl smiled, but it did not reach her sharp eyes. Her stare remained a prying thing, keen to unearth every buried secret._

_“If you’re worried about me killing you while you sleep, don’t bother. I would have nothing to gain from your death.” Shamir twirled a finished arrow idly between her fingers. Then she placed it within her quiver. “I tire of telling your House this, so listen up. I don’t resent you for what happened back then. Not to your generation. I will never love the Empire, but I don’t wish ill upon those who live there.”_

_“Yet it was my father who gave the order. He, who commanded the Empire to retaliate against yours.” Edelgard canted her head to the side, puzzled. “And still you say this? I admit, I thought Caspar had been exaggerating.”_

_“So you already knew where I stood.” Shamir sighed. She stood up, facing the princess. “Are we done? I have duties that I need to attend to.”_

_“I might have had an idea, but I wanted to hear it from you.” Edelgard leaned back on her heel, brow furrowing. “I also wanted to confirm something.”_

_“Which would be?”_

_“You say you do not resent us, but also imply a lingering resentment towards the Empire. On several other occasions, I’ve heard you express disdain for Fόdlan as a whole.” The girl flicked back her hair imperiously. “To that end, I’m puzzled why you’ve stayed. With the war long over, wouldn’t it be best for you to return?”_

_“I didn’t come here during the war.” Shamir corrected. Her voice lowered involuntarily as certain memories stirred. “It was only after it ended that I came to Fόdlan.”_

_“Oh.” Edelgard blinked, her composure dropping for once. Then the girl’s expression softened with contrition. “My apologies for assuming. But that just begs another question, why did you come here in the first place? Was Dagda truly that devastated?”_

_“It was. However, that wasn’t the reason why I left.” Shamir struggled not to reach for the dagger at her belt. Not a threat, but a point of connection to a man long gone. “I lost far more than I ever expected to. When that happens, there’s only so much a person can do.”_

_“So you decided to come to Fόdlan?”_

_“I didn’t decide anything. I just wandered wherever I pleased; no aim in mind.”_

_“Admittedly, I don’t know you that well. However...” Edelgard searched the archer’s eyes uncertainly. “That doesn’t seem very in character for you. I can’t imagine you wandering without a clear goal.”_

_“With respect, you don’t know me at all.” The Dagdan woman remarked, simple and curt. The girl frowned at her again, but she ignored her. “After the war and the losses I suffered, I had little desire to stay. So I let the winds carry me where they pleased because the tethers which kept me in Dagda had been torn away.”_

_“That’s reasonable, I suppose.” The princess placed a hand along her hip thoughtfully. “I still find it strange that you’re here, and serving a foreign nation’s Church at that. You must care for the Archbishop greatly to stay so loyal.”_

_“It’s not loyalty in how you might think of it.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_The archer fell quiet for a time, thinking of the best way to explain._

_“Imagine falling into the middle of a stream,” Shamir began, measuring her words. “Normally, you would choose to pull yourself free and be on your way. Yet what if you didn’t choose at all? Instead, you let the water carry you away; drifting until the river bends or reaches its end.”_

_“Are you calling Rhea a bend in a river?” Edelgard lifted her brows, appearing bemused._

_“If that’s how you want to interpret it.” Shamir breathed out slowly, arms crossed. “The point is that I didn’t choose this. I fell into it because there was nothing left for me. I see little reason to escape this life, and so I will stay. It’s that simple.”_

_“I see. I have to say, I never expected this sort of thinking from you.” Astute, lavender eyes ran over the Dagdan woman’s face. “In that hypothetical of yours, what if you found yourself wanting to pull free? What if you found something that needed you to?”_

_“That would depend on whether I consider the effort worth it.”_

_Edelgard stepped back, a faint approving smile on her face._

_“Well then, on that I think we can both agree.”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


The dungeon was dark, not a hint of light to be seen. A single torch lit the entrance gate, and Shamir took it in hand as she turned the lock. Then she wandered inside, heading deep within the maw of seemingly endless black. She worked her way slowly; a single hand tracing the chilled walls. The warmth of day could not reach below the earth, and the dense space seemed to leech all heat away.

At the end of the first cluster of cells was a large corridor that split into two separate directions. Twin oil lamps lit the area, brighter than the rest. She moved towards the eastern passage, remembering the noblewoman’s directions. Shamir stilled at the sound of voices. They were talking in hushed whispers, but neither sounded hurried. One of them was high-pitched and clear, but the cadence was disparate from an adult’s practiced speech. The other was more of a croaking rasp than anything else.

Abruptly their conversation ended, and a quick patter of feet started to approach. Shamir crouched low, keeping her back to the wall. Then a small figure darted down the opposite hall before they vanished into the dark. Shamir rose, continuing onward. And then, in the furthest cell, she found her. Catherine had her head tilted forward, tangled locks framing her face. It was hard to tell if the Knight was awake, slack as her body was. She was sitting on the ground, arms chained high over her head.

She did not seem injured, but the shadows draped over her frame revealed very little. Shamir unlocked the cell quickly, and Catherine stirred as the door swung open. The chained woman squinted as she neared.

“Who is...” Catherine trailed off, stunned. “Shamir?”

“Did you really expect anyone else?” The Dagdan woman asked, words clipped. She fiddled with the manacles, trying to fit the key. Much to her ire, the lock refused to turn. Shamir hissed in frustration. “I have to pick the damn thing. Hold still for a moment.”

“Not difficult to do. Shall I lay back and think of the Kingdom?” Catherine chuckled hoarsely. Shamir restrained the urge to roll her eyes. There would be time to scold her partner later. She fished out a curved needle from her jacket and slid it into the cuff. It was a primitive lock, ancient as these cells seemed to be.

“I’m glad you came for me.”

Her hands stilled. She bit her cheek and took a steadying breath.

“I wouldn’t have needed to if you had _stayed put_.” Shamir went back to work, trying hard not to yell at her partner. “Or if you hadn’t liquored me into a stupor.”

Catherine’s relieved expression faltered. The woman turned her face away.

“I never meant to leave you there all night. It was supposed to be a quick endeavor to see if they were still alive.”

“Well, they are. That sister of yours more than anyone.” Shamir set her jaw, on edge from remembering the irritating noblewoman. Catherine glanced up, blinking.

“You saw her?” The woman’s head lifted sharply, face marked with trepidation. “Did you…?”

“She’s unharmed if that’s what you’re worried about.” With a twist of her wrist, the lock bar gave way and the manacles snapped loose. Catherine’s arms fell into her lap, blood leeched and shaking. The Knight rubbed her agitated wrists with a grimace.

“Goddess, that hurts. Reminds me of that time we got snagged by those rogues near the Myrddin.”

“I saved you then too. Reckless and inconsiderate as you continue to be.” Shamir exhaled sharply before lifting the other woman to her feet. Catherine stumbled, bad leg nearly buckling under her weight. Then she gathered herself with a weak grin.

“Would it help to say I won’t do it again?”

“Depends. Would it be a lie?” Shamir snared the collar of her partner’s shirt and tugged until their eyes were level. Catherine frowned but did not pull away. “Don’t ever do something like this again. I can’t keep dragging you out of every fire you insist on leaping into.”

“Shamir...” The Dagdan woman expected Catherine to protest, or at the very least voice her displeasure. To her surprise, the woman sobered and nodded once. “I won’t. I mean that.”

“We’ll see.” With the woman’s face so close, it was easy to see the cluster of bruising marring her profile. Shamir felt a flicker of concern but pushed it aside. She let the Knight go, fingers falling away from sweat-soaked linen. “Let’s concentrate on getting out of here. The Empire is going to be looking for us soon.”

“What for? Did you carve a bloodbath on your way in?”

“No blood was spilled. However, I had to improvise my way inside.” The archer tore off the cloak still wrapped around her and dropped it to the ground. “Captain Leonie served as a decent disguise. Unfortunately, the woman herself needed to be dealt with. She should be stirring soon.”

“Leonie of the Strike Force?” Catherine scowled, rolling her shoulders. “Wait, you didn’t kill her? And you call _me_ reckless.”

“The Empire is unaware of your survival, and they don’t seem keen to pursue me in particular.” Shamir picked up the torch and sent her partner a chiding look. “That situation would easily change were I to murder one of their key commanders. If we want to escape unscathed, I suggest we avoid needless conflict.”

“Fine.” Catherine did not seem appeased by the logic, but she said nothing further about the decision. “Shall we leave? I think I’ve seen enough of my old family home to last me a lifetime.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


They left the way Catherine entered. Through the gardens and out into the southern end of the estate. Shamir had been surprised they were not being hounded by soldiers; neither Imperial nor Charon. The grounds were quiet as they left, and the Lord did not make another appearance before them. Melaina was a woman of her word, it seemed.

When they finally stepped outside the estate bounds, the day was starting to give way to evening. The sun was sinking below the tree line, and the landscape shifted into something more foreboding. Shamir kept her eyes on their surroundings. An Imperial patrol could stumble across them at any moment. With their luck, that was more likely to happen than not.

After they carefully climbed down the slope, Catherine far more halting in her movements, night had nearly blossomed in full. Dark clouds encroached, bringing with it the assurance of rainfall. Shamir looked around, searching for the mount that had carried them so far. Seeing nothing, she glowered wearily at her partner.

“What did you do with our horse?”

Catherine just held up her hands defensively.

“Settle down, would you?” The Knight jerked a thumb in the direction behind her. “I left the dumb animal in an abandoned mill. I knew the Empire would ask questions if a random horse started roaming around. I’m not _that_ thick.”

“So you say. Yet considering recent events, I beg to differ.” Shamir eyed the woman’s wrists pointedly. The skin had been rubbed raw, chaffed from the metal biting deep. “Hmph. Lead on, then. The sooner we leave Charon the better.”

“I’m starting to suspect you missed the horse more than me.” Catherine limped forward, appearing somewhat put out.

“Unlike you, she has a sense of self-preservation.” Shamir glanced at her, unimpressed. “She also doesn’t run off on me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. All you have to do is tie the stupid thing to a tree.”

“Are you saying I should do that to you?”

Catherine faltered, nearly tripping into the thicket. She looked back at Shamir with wide eyes. The Dagdan woman ignored her, masking a smile. She was still incensed, of course. Catherine’s behavior would not go without reprimand. But the woman was safe and the Empire was oblivious to that fact. Suddenly, the encroaching danger she had felt before seemed insignificant.

The aforementioned mill was safely sequestered in the southwest. It lay in the shadow of the mountains, nestled beside a trickling stream. The wheel was inert, and the wooden panels had long been overtaken by vines. Shamir watched, begrudgingly concerned, as her partner pried at the rickety door. It flew open after several tugs, revealing the inner millstone and a single horse. The animal was nosing at a bag of old grain, evidently trying to sate her hunger. Then the mare lifted her neck, head swiveling to stare at the two women.

Catherine smirked triumphantly.

“See? Right where I left her.”

“I can see that,” Shamir replied, tone painfully dry. She allowed herself to relax. “I suppose even the most thoughtless of people can have moments of brilliance.”

“You’re going to be baiting me for a while, aren’t you?” Catherine huffed, reaching down to soothe her leg. The muscle was likely sore from her time in captivity. Shamir was tempted to ask after her well-being, but she didn’t want her worry to be mistaken for coddling. The Knight’s pride wouldn’t tolerate such things. So she bit her tongue, deigning to watch as Catherine retrieved their horse.

Or she would have, had a searing pain not shot through her midsection. Shamir’s knees buckled, hand flying to her abdomen. _Wood and metal, a single fang lanced cleanly into flesh._

An arrow. _Sniper._

She threw herself to the ground, just as another passed by her ear. Dimly, Shamir registered Catherine yelling for her somewhere in the distance. Then came the telltale scrape of leather and metal as a sword loosed from sheath. Shamir struggled to her feet and darted for the trees. Her back pressed to the trunk, clutching her wound. Blood poured between her fingers.

_Damn it. _She gnashed her teeth. Had these men been waiting for them? Or had they followed them from the estate? Shamir chanced a glimpse from behind the tree, searching for her partner. To her horror, a heavily armored soldier was cornering the woman. Catherine had procured a rake, but that would hardly stand against a foe with sword and shield. Acting swiftly, Shamir gathered her bow and nocked her arrow. Just as the man arched his sword, she loosed.

With a terrible crack, the man’s skull split between the shaft. He fell in a great heap of steel. Catherine seized his sword, only pausing to take in Shamir’s location. Then she disappeared from view, heading straight into the trees. The archer paused to sigh heavily, feeling momentary relief. She tried to move forward; breath coming in harsh pants. Her side pulsed with agony as she attempted a step.

_I need...to…_ Her vision blurred. Shamir struggled against the sensation, unwilling to collapse now. If she fell unconscious, there would be a very slim chance of survival. Not just for Catherine. She heard the clash of steel from somewhere to the north. Slowing her breathing, Shamir stumbled through the brush. Unexpectedly, she passed by the marksman who wounded her. His throat was slashed, no doubt Catherine’s work. Even when lamed, the woman was still dangerous with a sword.

Suddenly, just a few paces away, she heard another thunderous clap of metal. The archer entered a clearing, leaning heavily against the trunk of an oak. She looked up quickly, glimpsing a whirl of black and white. Another armored soldier was crossing blades with her partner, quick and fierce in his offensive. Unfortunately, Catherine struggled to parry his blows. She moved with sluggish steps, mindful of her handicap, and only narrowly avoided an axe to the torso.

Catherine ducked, trying to avoid a sweeping slice, but it proved destined to fail. Her scarred leg gave, and she fell upon it in a tumble. The soldier pressed his advantage, foot pinning the woman down. Shamir lifted her bow again, but fingers refused to cooperate. She was shaking too much, lost within her body’s inherent response to injury. Frustrated, she threw the bow aside.

The Imperial soldier stood over her partner, axe ready to cleave her in two. Shamir would not give him the chance. With all her strength, she leapt atop his hulking frame and lunged with her dagger. It sank past his armor and into his spine, severing the cord. The man convulsed, body bowed. Then he collapsed to the dirt. Shamir swallowed hard, dragging herself off him. Hands still shaking, she pried her dagger free of his skin.

It did not come away clean. The blade caught against armor and bone, and the steel gave with a snap. She stared at the broken piece in her hand. Then, Shamir sheathed the ruined blade in her belt. In a haze of pain, she barely mustered the energy to crawl to a nearby boulder. She leaned against it, straining to catch her breath. All the while, blood continued to soak into her jacket.

“Shamir!” She heard Catherine’s voice come from above. A gentle hand grasped her shoulder. “_Shit._ Hold on, alright? I’ll check them for medicine.”

“Don’t... bother.” Shamir panted out. She blinked away the spots in her vision. “Just get... get the horse. We need... Before...”

“We’ll leave once I have you fixed up.” There was a shuffle of cloth somewhere to the right. Shamir looked up, limp and dizzy, as Catherine returned. “Absolutely_ nothing_. I can’t believe this–”

“I said, _l__eave_ it.” The Dagdan woman forced out in a rush. “If we can get to... camp. Supplies there… Can you…?”

She wasn’t sure if Catherine understood what she was saying. Shamir herself could barely string together a thought, let alone communication. She reached up, clinging to her partner’s shirt.

“Catherine... Please...”

The Knight said nothing for a time. Then she felt something reach under her legs and back. Abruptly, Shamir was staring at the side of Catherine’s face as the woman lifted her up.

“Don’t. Your leg—”

“As if I’m leaving you for a moment. The Empire isn’t the only predator in these woods.” Strong hands held her tight, hold unwavering. “You don’t have time for me to limp to the mill and back. Besides, you’re hardly heavy.”

“Stubborn,” Shamir whispered. She felt disconnected, present reality blurring together with memory. Her head fell to the side, nose buried in her partner’s neck. This was familiar, wasn’t it? Safe and warm. The scent of blood and sweat was oppressive, but beneath that…

Shamir let her eyes fall closed, returning to a night before the war. When she danced in these arms and dreamed of being loved in return.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The journey back to their camp was blessedly uneventful. Shamir fell in and out of sleep, straining to keep her eyes open. She clutched at Catherine’s back as the woman rode them hard into the night. After what seemed like an eternity, she felt them come to a standstill. Then Catherine lifted her gently off the mount before setting her by the extinguished fire. Shamir smothered a groan as the arrow within her body jostled with every movement.

Immediately, Catherine sprang into action. The woman rooted through their supplies, bringing back a cluster of objects. A bottle of healing concoction was opened, and Catherine soaked a rag with the liquid. Shamir watched her numbly. She flinched as the Knight reached down and grabbed the arrow shaft.

“I need to break and pull it free.” A steady gaze peered down at her. “Can you manage that?”

“Just do it.” Shamir breathed in, bracing herself. Her partner hesitated, then she strengthened her hold. The woman’s free hand reached towards the fletching before breaking it off with a vicious snap. Shamir’s arms flew to broad shoulders. Her nails dug into the muscle, teeth bared as she struggled not to scream. She was not a stranger to pain, nor injuries from fellow archers. Yet rarely with this severity, and never without a proper healer close at hand.

Then, the true test came as Catherine pulled the arrow shaft free. It slid through her bloodied flesh with slow progress, spiteful in its refusal to leave. Shamir tossed her head forward, settling teeth along her partner’s shoulder. The pain came in endless waves, like the rolling heat of a wildfire. She bit down hard when it finally exited her body. Catherine winced under the touch but remained focused on her task. Soon, the soaked rag was pressed to her gaping wound.

After the sharp sensation settled to a bearable throb, Shamir released her hold. She looked up into Catherine’s face. Her partner was staring at her, seemingly struck. The woman’s expression was visibly pained.

“Shamir... I...” Catherine hesitated, appearing to wrestle with something unknown. Her fingers were unsteady as she kept the rag pressed to skin. “I’m sorry.”

“It had to be done,” Shamir sighed out. The concoction was beginning to take effect, and she could feel the flesh prickle as it knit back together. “I’ll be fine in a bit.”

“That’s not—” The Knight shook her head, words stopping in her throat. A rhythmic flutter sounded across the area. It drew near, gaining volume with each passing second. “What’s..?”

“Pegasus wings.” Shamir stole a glance at the sky, seeing the offenders. A flock of Pegasi commanded the heavens, sweeping across the region. The moon shone upon their brilliant feathers; beautiful and bold. Their riders were armored, lances held within each hand. One of them stood out from the rest, a silver rider with hair like polished brass. Ingrid. Former Kingdom and one of the Emperor’s favored soldiers. No doubt looking for the person who attacked her fellow Eagle.

Thankfully, the squadron passed without noticing them. They flew around the Ohgma before retreating towards the center of Charon. After they had finally vanished for good, Catherine unwound, relaxing onto the ground. She made a small noise, sounding both strained and incredulous.

“Goddess, what a spectacular mess.”

“That it is.” A tingling heat came from Shamir’s abdomen as the medicine progressed. She shifted, testing for further pain. Upon feeling only the slightest twinge, Shamir placed a hand over Catherine’s fingers. The woman was clutching the rag in a tight grip, knuckles white. “You can let go now. I’ll take over from here.”

Catherine blinked down at her, stare unnervingly intense. An odd emotion burned in her eyes. Yet instead of moving away, the woman wrapped Shamir in a sudden embrace. The Dagdan woman stiffened, unsure of how to react to this. Eventually, she let her own arms wrap around the Knight, reciprocating. She felt her partner exhale slowly against her neck.

“I’m sorry.” Catherine’s grip changed, becoming something near desperate. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any of it. You’re all I...”

Shamir frowned and drew back to look into miserable blue. She waited for Catherine to speak again or perhaps explain, yet neither came. The woman just stared at her as if she could not bear to look away. Then she extracted herself, jaw locked.

“I’ll get the fire ready. Just relax there for a bit.”

With those final words, Catherine limped over to their supplies. Shamir watched her work, altogether uncertain of what passed between them. Overhead, a rumble of thunder came from the clouded sky. Lightning arced in chaotic ribbons, dancing in time to each bellow.

The Dagdan woman reached for her dagger instinctively, seeking solace, only to pause as the shattered blade nicked a finger. Shamir looked down and observed as a bead of blood dripped into her palm.

**Next Chapter: Stress Fracture**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, all! Did we have fun today? Shamir sure didn't. But at least we have a break in the holding pattern between our two gals. Which is partly what this 'arc' seeks to accomplish. Now some of you may be wondering: What the heck is this crazy cat doing? Aren't they back where they started? To which I would say: Yes, dear reader, because that is entirely the point. *pushes up glasses like the faux intellectual I am* But I want you guys to come to your own conclusions so I'll just drop that train of thought for now, lol. As for those who tried to guess the SF member, congrats! You were both right! For more Charon stuff, I followed the Greek naming convention canon set and just added on from there. Most of the names revolve around Cassandra of Troy, something you mythology buffs likely noticed. Thank you so much for reading and sitting through my wild nonsense. If you have any thoughts/theories/questions, I would love to hear them! Next time, we're going back on the road. Where they go only I know~ 
> 
> I hope everyone has a fantastic day! - AdraCat


	7. Stress Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weathered by duty and splintered by change, a Knight contemplates the present.  
The past intrudes in bittersweet reverie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to the amazing johnxfire. I couldn't ask for a better editor~

  
  


  
  


_“You look like me.”_

_Catherine opened her eyes. She peered through the dark, honing in on the flicker of torchlight. Outside her cell stood a small figure, capped with strawberry blonde curls and wide blue eyes. Argus; her brother. She raised her head, wincing at the dry clench of her throat._

_“I’m older,” Catherine croaked. “So you look like me.”_

_The boy blinked at her, appearing to mull over that logic. He took a cautious step forward._

_“Melaina told me not to talk to you.”_

_“Did she? I’m not surprised.” The Knight flexed her hands. The restraints bit into the seam of her wrists. “Might be for the better. Who knows what terrible things I’ll say.”_

_“She just said you would lie.” Argus frowned, hand wrapping around an iron bar. “Even if you didn’t know you were lying.”_

_“Typical.” Catherine scoffed. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling. “Then why are you here?”_

_There was a long pause as the boy hesitated. She heard him shift on his feet._

_“In the garden, she called you Cassandra.”_

_The woman tensed, jerking inadvertently against the restraints. She swallowed past the discomfort settling within._

_“What of it?” She forced the question out. The delivery was stiff; unpleasant — manufactured to wound. Her eyes cut to him, summoning the vitriol burning below the surface. Argus shrank away. His head bowed._

_“Mel… She used to talk about Cassandra. Alex too.” His voice wavered on the last few words. “Are you really her?”_

_Catherine let her severe expression fall. She bit her tongue and watched as the boy kept his eyes low. The darkness covered his face like a shawl as torchlight played within his hair. Not quite the same shade as hers, but close. Finally, she exhaled._

_“I used to be. Once.”_

_Before the mistakes Cassandra made. Before she knew the feel of skin rending beneath her blade. Before the moment when a single thrust slid easily through the separation of his ribs. When eyes green as spring widened in mute surprise, mouth parted as if yearning to say something. Then—_

_ ** Stop it.** _

_Catherine forced the image to fade from her mind._

_“I’m not Cassandra any longer.”_

_Argus furrowed his brow._

_“I don’t get it.” The boy stooped before sitting across from the bars. “How do you stop being who you are? That doesn’t make any sense.”_

_“It doesn’t have to. You’re young. Everything should confuse you.” Catherine let her body grow slack. Her voice lowered into practiced flippancy. “If you think too much about unnecessary things, you may end up like me — chained and soon to be killed.”_

_“Melaina wouldn’t hurt you.”_

_“I’m not referring to her.” The Knight bristled, an instinctual response when thinking of the Empire. A black hatred bubbled and stirred, poison by its very nature. Her next few words dripped with it. “The Emperor will have me executed. I’m sure my head will be paraded through the streets of Enbarr; the remaining Knight of Seiros done away with at last.”_

_Argus frowned, plucking at the hem of his trousers._

_“I don’t think she would do that. She seemed nice when she visited us.”_

_“What?” Catherine stared at him, incredulous. “She came to the estate? When?”_

_“When Uncle Gifre was Lord.” The boy tapped the cell bars idly. “Ede–Edeg–er… um, the Emperor came to talk business. But she mostly spoke to Mel and me. I don’t think she liked our uncle very much.”_

_“Considering she had him killed, I’m sure you’re right.” Catherine scoffed, lips turned into a sneer. Argus blinked at her. Confusion stole across his face._

_“Uncle Gifre’s not dead. He isn’t a lord anymore because he did something trees...” He trailed. “Um. Bad. Mel said he did a bad thing and had to be punished. So now he’s locked up so he can’t do bad things.”_

_“A sweet lie told to a sweet child,” Catherine growled out. “Melaina hides the truth from you, whether because of age or simply to keep you ignorant. The Emperor is a snake, Argus. The insidious kind that sleeps in tall grass, waiting for the unwary. She took our father and brother away. Don’t ever forget that.”_

_“War is terrible and requires terrible things to survive.”_

_The Knight blinked at him, caught off-guard. Argus peered from between the staggered iron, a curious gravity to his expression. It looked odd upon his childish features._

_“The Emperor told me that,” the boy relayed simply. “She said that rulers must act for the best of all; that the death of Father and Alex meant a greater peace.”_

_“And you believe her?”_

_“I want to. Mel does.” Argus sniffed, wiping his nose. “She was nice. And she let me ask questions. Her friend was scary though. He was very tall. Taller than Father was, I think.”_

_“Not all snakes hiss. The most dangerous ones smile.” Catherine pressed her lips together, curving them into a humorless grin. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. Faerghus and Charon have fallen to Imperial rule and I remain here. The point is moot.”_

_“Mel said—"_

_“Is your only opinion that of others?” She cut him off sharply. “Can you not think for yourself? Or do you need to constantly rely on a greater authority?”_

_Argus flinched away. He looked to the ground, fiddling nervously with his shirt. Catherine felt a pang of regret._

_“I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t have said any of that.” She swallowed thickly. Contrition softened her tone. “You’re a child. It’s only natural to look to others for guidance.”_

_“I know more than people think. I see more too,” Argus mumbled. The words were spoken softly; atypically thoughtful for his age. As if they were for himself rather than her. “I’m not blind. Or stupid. Maybe I’m being lied to. Maybe the Emperor is a bad person. But I can’t change any of that.”_

_The boy rose to his feet, dusting off his pants._

_“War makes people do bad things. So I don’t want another war.” He gave the woman a tiny shrug. “I don’t want you to die either, but if it meant other people wouldn’t get hurt...”_

_“Pragmatic and cold. This is the future of House Charon, is it? I think I’m better off dead then.” Catherine breathed in deeply. “Away with you, boy. I’ve nothing more to say.”_

_“Mel said you did something terrible too.”_

_She stilled, nearly biting her cheek in shock. Her eyes trailed up to his. The boy stared at her plainly, neither judgment nor accusation upon his face. Just intrigue tempered with hesitance._

_“She said it was something so awful that you needed to run away.” Argus tilted his head, brow wrinkling again. “Is that true? Is that why you’re not Cassandra anymore?”_

_“Cassandra...” The name dropped from her lips like oil sinking into water. Simultaneously alien and of a kind. The same yet separate. Catherine cringed. She was tempted to deflect the question and send the boy fleeing into the night with a few pointed epithets. But something stopped her. Instead, she found herself telling the truth. “It was part of the reason. And I did run. However, I never meant to flee forever, nor did I think...”_

_The Knight fell into a brief silence. All the while, her brother listened patiently. She turned to face the boy._

_“It was never my plan to abandon Charon. I was ashamed and afraid, so I reacted like any frightened animal. But that first mistake was not the greatest, nor the most terrible.”_

_“What was then?”_

_“Something only the Goddess could forgive me for.” Catherine sighed, the rigid line of her back relaxing. “I tried to do what I thought was right; and for that hubris, someone I loved was killed.”_

_Argus’ eyes widened._

_“As adults do?”_

_Catherine snorted. She smiled at him, letting her amusement show through._

_“No. More like family.” She paused, melancholy replacing her momentary levity. “As I should have cared for Alexander, perhaps. He…meant a great deal to me, this friend of mine. And it was because of me that he—"_

_Catherine stopped, throat painfully tight. She cleared it after a moment._

_“I couldn’t go back after that. Not for what I did. So I gave it all up; name, title, and all. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”_

_Argus was quiet, features pinched as he absorbed the information. The boy looked as if he would inquire further, but a distant sound intruded. Grating and piercing, like the scream of grinding metal. Or, more likely, the simple creak of a gate. She jerked her chin to the west pointedly._

_“You should leave. I doubt Melaina will be pleased to catch you down here.”_

_“Alright,” Argus whispered. He lingered by the bars, clearly reluctant. “Um, Catherine?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“I’m sorry.” He glanced at her restraints before bringing his gaze down to meet hers. Even in the dim light with only a torch for illumination, she could see the distinct features he bore. He reminded her of their father. Or, if she was to be completely honest, of herself — before the years had chipped away everything that made her who she had been. “I wish I could have known you. When you were Cassandra.”_

_“No.” She closed her eyes, head bowing. Hair fell over her eyes, tangled and matted with sweat. “It’s better that you didn’t. Go on now, before someone sees you.”_

_Argus looked at her a moment longer. Then he turned his back and fled down the passageway. The light left with him and the dark took its place; a yawning mouth with endless teeth, made of memories she wished would disappear. Her thoughts turned inward, clinging to an unknown feeling within her chest. Regret? Disappointment? She could not say. Perhaps it was merely the beginnings of sororal fondness._

_Yet, Catherine knew, the truth of its nature meant very little. In the end, it was just another ghost of what might have been._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Catherine would never forget the first time she ever held a sword. It had been plain iron, short and light in consideration of her stature. Father had it made just for her; a fact she had lorded over Alexander without end. The hilt had been wrapped in lambskin and decorated with a gaudy knob of brass. It had been a child’s weapon, in truth, but she had clutched it tight as if it were the greatest of relics. The weight of it as it crashed against wood and barrel. The sing of the edge as it loosed from sheath. The piercing whistle of metal as it cut through the air. All of it alluded to a power she had no words to define.

It was her first love and the beginning of her interest in warfare. From then on, nothing else could compare. Even as a child, she knew her purpose had been found. Alexander could keep his dusty books and magical nonsense. Cassandra of Charon would be a warrior of iron and steel. Just as her heroic ancestor had been. And like him — in the steps of every heir before her — she would one day wield the pride of her House. Thunderbrand.

However, those distant days were long gone, as was the sword she had once held as proof of her worth. It was just her now, Catherine of nothing, with a broken body and a shattered intent. She stared at the stolen blade in her hands. It was iron, just as that first one had been. The edge had rolled and chipped, bearing hints of the grain beneath.

It had happened that disastrous night. When she stalked into the forest desperate to root out the craven bastard who wounded Shamir. Her blood had been high, rage at its peak. She had spotted him through the thicket. As he lined up another shot, she had crept up behind the man. It was only by the good grace of the Goddess that he did not notice her. The task had been deceptively simple from there. Catherine had wrapped an arm around his neck, grip tight and unyielding. Then she dragged the sword across his neck.

As blood splattered across both arms, her world had been set right. The field of war was once again hers to claim. The weakness she felt, the horrors she saw and perpetuated; what did it matter? This was her purpose, base and terrible though it was. Or so she fooled herself into believing. Confidence soaring, she had rushed to deal with the final soldier. But this man was not caught unaware as the archer.

Prepared and skilled, he parried each clumsy strike she had made. And then, the unavoidable happened. Her leg gave. The world slowed to a crawl as she was cast down to the earth. Weak, felled by her pride, she had stared up at the midnight sky. An axe loomed above as moonlight shimmered across black armor. The end had come for her once more. But just as it was in Fhirdiad, Shamir refused to let death claim her.

Grievously wounded, the Dagdan woman still managed to do what Catherine could not. And as the man fell to dirt, dagger to the spine, the lamed Knight realized an inconvenient truth. Heavy and ponderous, it wrapped her heart in a vice. That pressure tightened with each ragged gasp Shamir took, and every tide of blood which seeped through shaking fingers.

Days later, that feeling remained. Even with her partner safe and mostly recovered, Catherine could not ignore its onerous weight. The realization that she had been the cause of all this. Her actions. The choices she made without the guidance of the divine. All the while, the Goddess continued to keep Her silence, as She had ever since that fiery night. Once more, Catherine was left to use her own judgment. And once more, it had led to disaster for herself and for another person she cared for.

Catherine stabbed the sword into the ground, using it to rise to her feet. The forest was quiet, draped in the soft shadows of the morn. They had been lucky to escape from Charon without further incident. The Imperial patrols became scarce the further north they traveled. They were near the Tailtean currently; a fine place to hide for the time being. War-ravaged and barren, there would be little reason for the Empire to scour these lands. Yet the blanket of safety was just an illusion.

Shamir had saved her, but at the cost of her relative anonymity. Even if the crime was small, the Eagles would search regardless. Catherine gripped the sword tighter. _Running. Always running._ No destination in mind. No place or cause to belong. Their plans continuously dashed or shattered into pieces. What could they possibly do now? Where would they go?

_Are we just fleeing from the inevitable? _

The Knight shook her head before treading down to the stream. Perhaps a dunk in cold water would clear her troubled thoughts. Mulling over pointless hypotheticals never did anyone any good. She stumbled through the brush, only to halt upon reaching the water. Her eyes drifted across pale flesh.

Shamir was bare, suffering the cold to clean her body. The Dagdan woman did not appear to notice her, preoccupied as she was. Had it been any other time, perhaps Catherine might have playfully commented or retreated to let her partner finish in privacy. But the circumstance was jarring and her mind was still restless with her previous concerns. So Catherine stayed, frozen in surprise.

Unwittingly, her gaze trailed across the stark expanse of Shamir’s back. Silvery scars marked her in uneven patterns. Some were pocked and sunken from arrowheads. Others formed sweeping patterns from axe or sword. The muscle which formed her frame was lean as a fox, built for speed rather than power. Everything that she was spoke of one immutable fact. Above all else, Shamir was a survivor. Yet when it came to her...

Catherine’s eyes caught on pinked skin. The size of a button clasp, it stood out from the silver sheen of scar tissue. The wound was still fresh and not quite healed in full. Had the arrow been higher… The Knight clenched her teeth, jaw set. She barely noticed as the other woman turned.

“Catherine?” Shamir stilled, but did not shirk away. She stood in the river’s middle, the water barely crested over her waist. Her arms folded across her chest. “I didn’t hear you. Announce yourself next time.”

“Are you inviting me to watch you bathe?” Catherine smiled thinly. It was a shoddy attempt at humor, and her voice sounded flat to the ear. Her eyes lifted to meet narrowed violet. The color looked deceptively bright, reflecting the scattered shine of water and sky.

“Even if I did, we both know how it would end.” Shamir waded to the shore, running a hand through her dripping hair. The strands were plastered to her face, dark with moisture. As the woman arched onto the bank, her face tilted up to stare at Catherine. “For all your boldness, you falter in the face of suggestion. Am I wrong?”

“Maybe not.” Catherine allowed her smile to fall. She watched as Shamir snatched her towel from a nearby tree, unashamed of her nudity. Neither woman was timid or modest by any stretch. This was also not the first time Catherine had seen her partner unclothed. It was a natural progression of trust when one placed their life in another person’s hands.

However, there was a certain anxiety Catherine could not place. She eyed the Dagdan woman as she unrolled a fresh length of bandages. An aggrieved huff whispered from Shamir’s lips as she tried to wrap her midsection. Guilt blossoming anew, the Knight wandered near.

“Here, let me help.” Catherine took the cloth and leaned in. Carefully, she began wrapping it around fair skin. Shamir had not moved during these proceedings. The shorter woman was oddly still, mouth open and shoulders tense. Then she relaxed as Catherine tended to her, eyes aglow with something that might have been gratitude. Hands settled above the swell of the Knight’s chest, fingers grazing her clavicle.

After a long period of silence, Catherine finally finished the binding. She knotted the end tight before flashing her partner a reassuring grin.

“That should hold you. Bit of a shame neither of us learned any healing. It would have come in handy after the hell we’ve been through.”

“Hm.” Shamir stared up at her, eyes curiously dark. A sudden pang of familiarity intruded, reminding Catherine of another place in time. When she had answered the question in that heated stare with equal want. And just like then, she found herself snared by conflicted desire. Shamir leaned into her grip, chin tilted up. Her lashes fluttered once; a wordless invitation.

Catherine should have retreated, she knew. It was only proper. Yet she found herself frozen by the look in those glittering eyes. They were just as coy as she remembered. The glow of dawn traced a warm path across bare skin.

It would have been easy. Incredibly so. As it had been the first and only time they embraced. It was a struggle not to succumb to the memory. The feel of a warm mouth yielding beneath her. The taste of wine upon lips and tongue. Shamir drew closer, lifting up on her toes. Catherine blinked as cloth rasped underneath her palm.

_Red poured from a gruesome gash, flowing faster as the arrow was ripped away. Teeth poised over the meat of her shoulder, biting down in agony. Violet eyes glassy, the light nearly faded. Just as his did when–_

With a pained chuckle, she tore herself away.

“We should get moving soon. Don’t want to waste daylight.” Catherine turned her back, not deigning to look for a reaction. “We could keep heading towards the plains. There’s a village or two in the vicinity that won’t ask too many questions.”

She heard the archer get dressed and kept her gaze to the trees. The tension remained even as Shamir stepped back into view. The Dagdan woman was fully clothed, expression composed and blank. But when their eyes met, Catherine could feel an edge lying beneath the calm — accusing and bitter as any hidden poison.

“We do need to stop for supplies.” Shamir shook out her damp hair. Her gaze lowered, and the sharpness faded. “I suppose we can decide where to go from there.”

“Yeah.” Catherine sighed. She rubbed her neck, uneasy. “Shamir… What happened before, in Charon—”

“We don’t need to discuss it.” The other woman twisted on her heel. “There are more pressing things to worry about. I suggest you get your head together and think only about the present.”

“And you’re alright with that? With the mistakes I made?”

There was a brief pause as Shamir seemed to consider. The tense line of her neck gentled, if only slightly. She glanced at her partner.

“I would be lying if I said I was pleased. But there’s nothing to be done.” Her mouth curved into a frown. “You wouldn’t do anything that impulsive again, would you?”

“Of course not.” Catherine scowled, but a tinge of uncertainty stole the heat from her voice. Her eyes lingered upon the spot where her partner had been pierced. “I promised you that I wouldn’t act recklessly. I intend to keep that vow.”

“Good.” Shamir began walking away, arms crossed, and steps certain. Unflappable as she had ever been. “If you intend to bathe, I suggest you do so now. There won’t be too many opportunities until we reach the plains.”

“Are you saying I need one?” Catherine mustered a weak laugh. Shamir stopped for a time, looking at the other woman askance.

“I just assumed that was the reason you stayed around.” Her eyes crept up Catherine’s frame, assessing and full of challenge. “Unless you’re admitting to perversion. Or perhaps that only extends to me. Is that the impression you want to give?”

Catherine blinked back at her, unable to respond. Rather than being appeased, Shamir just scoffed and vanished into the trees. The Knight continued to stare long after she disappeared. She raised a hand and rubbed her brow. All the while, that lump in her throat never left. It sat, choking the life from her.

Catherine considered that last moment they shared. Briefly, she entertained the notion of explaining herself. Her past and fears. The numerous stumbling blocks of her life keeping her from what she wanted. Yet that never came to be. So Catherine remained where she was. Never stepping forward or backward. Forever pinned in place, stalled by the numerous excuses she made.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Graduating from the Officer’s Academy was a momentous occasion. The final hurdle to pass before the various lordlings and promising soldiers could take their rightful place in society. It was meant to be a celebration of each person’s fealty, not only to their country but to the Goddess as well. So it was only fitting that the Archbishop would oversee the ceremony._

_Cassandra had watched, tongue thick and heart racing, as one by one her fellow students kneeled at the Lady’s feet. The Archbishop would raise her sword, a rippling blade with a golden hilt, and rest it along the supplicant’s shoulder. Then the person would rise; a student no longer but a soldier blessed with holy favor. A braid of white and gold would be given and the graduate would descend from the dais._

_She straightened and stood as her name was called. Cassandra walked with her head held high. Her eyes caught the Archbishop’s for a breathless moment. The woman had smiled, serene and motherly. The shadow of something Cassandra had not seen for years, not since her own mother had passed. Pride welled in her chest and the young woman knelt gladly. She felt the cool touch of metal as it slid across her formal coat. Then the pressure left and the Archbishop bid her to stand._

_The Lady’s smile was wide, head crowned by light. Her eyes were soft and knowing, greener than anything she had ever seen. She held out her hand, offering the customary braid. Cassandra took it carefully. Her fingers trembled, but the Archbishop was gracious enough not to comment. The woman tilted her head once; a gentle acknowledgment. Cassandra bowed in return before returning to her seat._

_As thunderous applause followed her steps, she clutched the braid to her chest. Relief and excitement flooded her and she cast her gaze across the gathered crowd. She glanced over each face, searching for one in particular. Yet it proved a fruitless gesture. The boy she wished to see was not there. Cassandra frowned, staring hard into the pews where the rest of the Lion’s sat in wait. Still, she could not see him. Confused and worried, she asked their professor for his location._

_But that too, yielded little result. The man had merely blinked at her gamely before adjusting his cuffs._

_“The young lord Gaspard? I can’t say for certain. Perhaps he fell ill.”_

_The answer was unsatisfactory, but Cassandra did not press him further. She sat among her fellow Lions, clapping lightly when appropriate. However, the thought of her friend never left. She continued to eye her surroundings, hoping to glimpse a mop of platinum hair._

_Hours later, when the ceremony adjourned into a plentiful feast, Cassandra still found herself searching. She sipped on her glass, thoughts distant. More than a few would-be suitors walked up to her, hoping for a dance. She sent them away with a curt stare. The heir of House Charon was not in the mood to entertain their overtures._

_Even the girl she had tentatively considered courting flashed an inviting smile her way. She was a winsome lady of no small pedigree with a long drape of dark hair. Father might have approved, if only begrudgingly. Yet Cassandra could only spare an apologetic nod. The girl frowned at her, clearly disappointed, but was soon whisked away by a fair-haired nobleman. Cassandra watched them dance, twisting the glass in her hands._

_“You may live to regret that one.”_

_She stilled, head turning in time to see a lopsided grin. Christophe sidled close, messy hair combed into a semblance of order. He peered at her, bright eyes twinkling with mirth._

_“She looked pretty keen, too. Unless you’ve decided to give in to my Lord Father’s proposal? Shall I be calling you wife soon, dear Cassandra?”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous.” Cassandra faced him, scowling darkly. “And where the hell have you been? I spent all morning waiting in the dormitories and then you were absent for the entire ceremony.”_

_“Ah, that.” Christophe plucked a tart from the dessert tray. “I had some business to attend to. Nothing to concern yourself with.”_

_“Coming from you, that sounds more like a threat than reassurance.”_

_“Perhaps.” His mouth quirked up before he wolfed the pastry down in two swift bites. “Hmm. Rather dry. I think I’ll take my complaints to the cook.”_

_“You’re impossible.” Cassandra snorted, setting her glass aside. She narrowed her eyes. “Be honest with me. What kept you? Did one of the professor’s need you for something, or…?”_

_“No. Nothing like that.” The young man dusted his hands, expression careless and airy. “Just some affairs that needed to be settled before my departure.”_

_“You’re already heading back to Gaspard?” Cassandra’s brows arched with confusion. “I thought we had agreed to stay on for a few more months. Possibly squiring for one of the Knights?”_

_“That was always your plan. Not mine.” Christophe looked at her steadily. “And I’m not going home. I plan on leaving Fόdlan within the week.”_

_“What?” An incredulous laugh escaped the noblewoman. “Surely you jest.”_

_“I’m perfectly serious.” He paused, glancing around them quickly. “But this may not be the best place to discuss. Shall we take our conversation outside?”_

_“If you insist.” Cassandra eyed him, concern growing. If he noticed the scrutiny, no mention was made. Christophe merely turned and strode out of the dining hall. She followed, perplexed and unnerved._

_Outside the heated walls and far from the crush of humanity, the brisk mountain air bit into flesh. Cassandra shook off the chill, buttoning her coat. She stood atop the hall steps and watched as her friend sauntered down onto the small dock. He breathed deeply, arms crossed. As he stood there, with the water below him and the sky threatening rain, Christophe appeared to be caught in an endless abyss. Like a star shining in the lonesome tapestry of night. He turned and smiled._

_“Look at you... With the warmth of light to your back and that braid of gold, has there ever been a more divine sight?”_

_Cassandra blinked and looked at her shoulder. The braid was entwined with her coat, swinging gently in the wind. The fabric glittered under the flickering torchlight. She touched it briefly before her eyes cut back to the young man. For the first time, she noticed his conspicuous lack of formal attire. He was garbed in simple traveling clothes, leather new and untested. She looked for his own braid but found nothing._

_“And yet I cannot say the same.” Christophe pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m a bit of a failure in that regard.”_

_“You didn’t graduate,” Cassandra stated the obvious, realization dawning. “Why ever not? You’ve always been an excellent student. Better than I ever was. And your skill in battle is second only to me within the Lions.”_

_“It’s not a matter of capability.” His smile slipped, expression changing into something stern. “I withdrew myself, in fact. I fear my father will be rather cross when he hears of this.”_

_“You–” Cassandra stepped back, stunned. “Have you gone mad? Withdrawing from the Academy after all this time… What were you thinking?”_

_“I was thinking outside myself for once.” Christophe sighed, arms crossed. “Cassandra, do you recall that last mission? The one in Mateus with those farmers.”_

_She stilled at the mention. Her mind drew back to the month before, when the task had been given to their House. It had been a difficult assignment for many reasons and the outcome was not one any had expected. Even their professor, devout and fervent of belief, had been noticeably subdued._

_“They were only a group of common folk; starving and desperate.” Christophe went on, not waiting for her response. He stared at the ground, mouth pursed. “They had pleaded for relief from their Lord but he ignored their plight. So they took to thieving.”_

_He raised his head, gaze piercing through the dark._

_“Do you think it was right, what we did? Do you think it was **just** for the Church to send us?”_

_“It’s not our place to question the Archbishop’s orders.” Cassandra grimaced, unease deepening. “They were criminals and so they needed to be dealt with.”_

_“They were just people trying to survive. Yet the Archbishop refused to hear their reasons and commanded a group of students to play executioner.” The man’s voice raised, near hoarse with ire. “The youngest in our House is only a boy of fourteen. Do you think he deserved to know what it’s like to cut down an unarmed man? His countryman, no less?”_

_Christophe plucked a rock from the planks and tossed into the water. It skipped violently, crashing against the wall. Then it sank into the pitch._

_“Fόdlan shouldn’t be like this, separated into the fortunate and the lesser with a singular authority having the final say. Using faith as an excuse to force compliance and will… What sort of system does the Archbishop protect? That she forces **us** to protect?”_

_“You’re speaking like those fools in the Western Church.” Cassandra exhaled, placing a hand over her eyes. “This has been the way of things for centuries. Those farmers knew the law yet they stole anyway.”_

_“So you’re proud of what we were forced to do?”_

_“No. I’m not.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose before looking off into the distance. The craggy peaks of the Ohgma stretched in a winding spine. Towards the rolling hills of her home and far past that. As it had done for centuries and would likely continue to so for far longer. “However, I cannot disobey. And I am proud to serve the Church, as a loyal soldier to both crown and country.”_

_Christophe fell into a contemplative silence. His brow creased and his eyes gleamed with an unknown emotion. Then he recovered and offered a weak laugh._

_“I suppose that’s why you wear that braid and I do not.” Christophe thumbed the collar of his shirt meaningfully. “I cannot kneel before someone I do not respect. Just as I cannot pledge to uphold the name of my House if it means obeying blindly.”_

_“Then what do you plan to do?”_

_“Travel, I suppose.” He shrugged, but it appeared weighted. Heavy with things he would never reveal. “I do not like the methods and answers the Church has given. So I would like to see what the rest of the world has to offer.”_

_“And what of your family — of your responsibilities?” Cassandra frowned in disapproval. “Christophe, you’re the heir to your House. You can’t toss aside your future on an idle fancy.”_

_“My father is healthy and my siblings will be fine. They’re all an independent lot.” Her friend retreated from the dock, standing just below the steps. “Gaspard can do without me for now. It’s not as if I’ll be gone forever, just for a time.”_

_“And how long will that be?”_

_“Until I find an answer I’m satisfied with.” Christophe flashed his usual easy grin. “Take heart, Cassandra. This won’t be the last time we meet. Perhaps my father will finally convince you to marry me. Wouldn’t that be a lovely thing to come back to?”_

_“Lovely as an axe to the neck.”_

_“Then I suggest you get to wooing that beautiful maid in the dining hall.” He swept into a deep bow. “My carriage awaits me, dear lady. I pray we meet again under auspicious stars.”_

_“Get out of here, you dramatic fop.” Cassandra waved her hand and turned back to the doors. “Try not to get yourself killed. I would rather not have your ghost hanging about.”_

_“I would make a handsome one.” Christophe fell quiet. His tone softened slightly. “Goodbye, Cassandra. But only for now.”_

_The patter of footsteps heralded his leave. Soon it faded, leaving her with only the wind and song of crickets. She breathed in, tasting the sharp mountain air. Cassandra waited there for a moment longer before heading in the direction of the dorms. She was not of a mind to celebrate anymore. The weight of the braid at her shoulder felt ponderous. Leaden with peculiar guilt._

_Years later, she would come to regret not seeing him off. It would have been nice, to keep that pleasant image of him in her mind. Young, idealistic, and far more caring than he portrayed. With a quick joke and effervescent smile meant just for her. Had she known what would come next… Cassandra might have begged him to stay. Or followed him, wherever his travels went. Yet she hadn’t known. And reality was crueler for it._

* * *

  
  


At the southern edge of the Tailtean Plains stood a village of little recognition. It was small and sequestered between two merchant routes that led to Fhirdiad. But there were few caravans that trekked in either direction currently. The roads, once constantly bustling with horse and cart, were now barren as any untrod stretch. As they entered the village perimeter, only a few people stopped to look. Most went about their day, paying little mind to the two women.

Dusty and bedraggled from their travels, they must have looked quite the sight. Yet a weary traveler went unnoticed more than a clean face. Only the unruffled and perfumed drew attention in these parts. They stopped at the inn, Shamir tying their horse and Catherine unloading their packs. Their supplies were scarce, satchels light from constant use.

The Knight frowned at the bundle in her hands, noticing only the slightest jangle of coin within. She turned to face her partner, but Shamir was already walking inside. Catherine exhaled, slinging the bags over her shoulder. Then she followed after the other woman. The inn was cozy and warm, a lovely reprieve from the growing chill of night. The keeper appeared surprised, but the man was polite enough. He gave them a brief once-over.

“Ye look as if the forest chewed ye good an’ proper ‘fore spittin’ ye out.”

“It’s been a hard road to travel.” Shamir adjusted her glove, barely glancing at the man. “The Imperial troops are making it hard for a mercenary to get a leg in.”

“Aye, work and coin have not been the steadiest.” The man scratched at his scruffy pate. “But there’s a certain security to it all. Bandits haven’t been plyin’ their trade of late.”

“Small mercies.” The Dagdan woman fished out a coin from her jacket. “Is there a room available for the night?”

“Plenty of them, miss. Not too many travelers stoppin’ through ol’ Teltown these days.” The man jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Top right should be good. Big bed too.”

His grey eyes slid to Catherine, bushy brow raised. She was tempted to snort and scold the man for his audacity, but her partner quickly intervened.

“That should be fine. You have our thanks.” Shamir placed an extra golden piece upon the desk. “And here’s another for privacy. Do you understand?”

“Aye.” The keeper bobbed his head, smiling wide and knowing. “Should anyone come a searchin’, I’ll make sure they get the runaround.”

Catherine observed him tuck the pieces away eagerly. She looked at the other woman, suddenly very much aware of their dwindling coin. But she knew better than to second guess Shamir’s judgment. It was certainly far better than her own. She winced at the thought.

“Then we’re in agreement,” Shamir said curtly. “Can you bring a basin of hot water to our room? And some soap and lye if you can manage it.”

“No trouble. I’ll get to boilin’ soon.”

“Good.” Shamir changed her attention to the Knight. Catherine startled a bit as the woman grabbed the packs off her shoulders. “I’m going to head to the local stable. Hopefully, they won’t mind an extra horse in the stalls.”

“You’re leaving me here?” Catherine grimaced as the question left her mouth. She sounded far needier than she wanted. Clearing her throat, the Knight tried again. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re willing to chance it. What happened to tying me up?”

The Dagdan woman’s eyes thinned to slits.

“If the bed-frame is sturdy, I just might.” Shamir glared up at her, words dark with warning. “Stay still and don’t cause any trouble. If you do, I’m sure our inn-keeper friend will tell me.”

“That’s just cheating.” Catherine forced a chuckle as the other woman continued to glower. “Fine. I’ll be good. I swear.”

“We’ll see.” With an exasperated sigh, Shamir stalked out into the night. Catherine’s smile fell as she left. She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing at the grime and tangles she found. The Knight turned swiftly, only to catch the eye of the innkeeper. The man was staring at her, brow wrinkled in thought. His gaze traveled up her frame, but it did not seem to be a lecherous sweep.

Did he possibly recognize her? The notion sent a chill up her spine. Her armor was covered by a thick cloak, obscuring the distinctive crest of Seiros. But the silver finish that decorated the steel was telling enough for a discerning eye. Thankfully, that did not seem to be the case. Upon meeting her glare, the man offered an amiable grin.

“Now that the missus is gone, ye want a stiff drink? Ye look like ye could use it.”

Catherine blinked at him. She glanced at the tables behind her. The inn was not busy by any means and only a few patrons supped within. A group of three drank in relative peace. Most likely a party of mercenaries, going by their arms. They sat in the far corner, conversing among themselves. She mulled over the man’s offer for a time. Then she gave him a firm nod.

“Sure. The strongest thing you got, preferably.”

“I think I can manage that!” He laughed and ambled into the back, whistling an old Kingdom ditty. Catherine shook her head, pondering the oddity of common folk, and took a table. A few paces away, the group of three proceeded to gab. Their voices rose the longer they spoke.

“...riddance, I say. Not as if they ever did me any good.” One of the men huffed. His voice was thunderous and deep, like the keening of a boar. “All the ones I knew were arrogant shits.”

“They did some things right; kept the peace when the lords couldn’t.” The second man’s voice was far lighter than his companion’s. When next he spoke, it was soft and even. “Sure, they made mistakes but–”

“Mistakes?!” The first man slammed his fist into the table. The clatter of plates echoed the outburst. “Slamming a hammer into your hand is a mistake. Wearing your cuirass backward is a mistake. Setting a city aflame is not something you can wave away so easily.”

Catherine stilled, hand’s clenched atop the table. She swallowed hard.

“I know, but the circumstances were—”

“Nothing can excuse that. Nothing.” There was a solid thwack of flesh along scabbard. “That mad bitch deserved to be cut down. The Emperor had the right of it.”

“That’s a bit harsh. The Archbishop had always been a beacon of good in the world. There must be something we’re missing.” The second man sounded downcast, a tangible melancholy to his measured cadence.

“You’re still on about that? After what we’ve heard?”

“We weren’t there. Fhirdiad could have been part of a larger plan. Perhaps—”

“How could razing a city end in anything other than misery? That’s just willful ignorance.” The first man emitted an unimpressed guffaw. “No. You just want to _believe_ she was good.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?” The other sighed. “I spent my life in worship of the Church. I can’t let that go without question. It’s just not that simple.”

“It is when you’re in support of a woman who massacred countless.” Another fist struck the table triumphantly. “And now the Archbishop lies in the grave. A proven monster until the end. Everything is how it should be, much as it can.”

Catherine clutched at the table, nails digging deep. She strained not to stand and slug the loud fool in the mouth. It would certainly soothe the raging fire in her veins. She tensed her legs, nearly rising from her chair. Then her thoughts turned to Shamir, halting her entirely. The Dagdan woman would not be pleased to find her ensconced within a brawl. Shamir would like it even less if she knew who threw the first punch. Heavily, Catherine plopped back into her seat.

“But the Church as a whole didn’t need to be disbanded.” The second went on, more heated than before. “The Emperor acts too hastily. The Church predates the dawn of the Empire, as do the teachings of Seiros. Yet she wants to wipe the slate clean? How does she presume to keep order? Say what you will, but faith is the backbone of every Fόdlan nation.”

“They do just fine in Adrestia and it’s not as if Leicester is particularly devout. It was only tradition which kept the Church in power.”

“The Church worked fine in the Kingdom.”

“Have you buried your head in the sand? Faerghus has been festering with countless insurrections. You forget Lord Lonato’s rebellion.”

“_Failed_ rebellion. The Knights did away with him, just as they did his traitorous son.”

Catherine flinched, breath torn from her.

“Believe what you want. I know the truth.” A meaty thump sounded, presumably from the man beating his chest. “There are two sides to this. The ones that set the fire and the ones that put the flames out. I’d rather believe in the latter.”

“As you say,” The second man said next, shifting audibly. “What’s your opinion on this? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I don’t have a great opinion either way.” A third voice joined the other two. His tone was bland; apathetic. The first man grunted.

“That’s horseshit. Surely you care about what the Church did? Or are you in support of them?”

“It’s horrific, with that I agree.” The third man tapped the table idly. “But the Empire is not innocent either. Neither side can be truly just in war. It’s not possible.”

Catherine frowned, perking slightly. The innkeeper dropped a full pitcher atop the table, but she barely noticed. The Knight craned her head to listen further.

“Sure, but you still need to admit one is worse. The Archbishop went right loony at the end, that much you can’t deny.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I don’t need to care about any of it.” He clicked his tongue, a clear dismissal. “What do I care which noble sits the throne? That doesn’t concern me any. And if the Church is done away with, how does that affect my life? It doesn’t.”

“That’s a rather simple way to look at it.” The second man responded.

“If you want to remain sane, it’s the only way to live. I’m just a man trying to live my life. I have little intention of looking for trouble where there is none.”

“And the injustices our people suffered? Those who died in Fhirdiad?” The first man groused.

“The war is over and everything will be solved or it won’t. There’s nothing we can do, so why worry?”

“I’m not sure I agree.”

“Neither do I.”

“Yes.” The third man made a faint noise of amusement. “Then let’s agree to disagree. A wiser action than bickering over dinner.”

The three men fell into companionable silence, oblivious to the Knight eavesdropping upon them. Catherine stared down at her fists. They relaxed, fingers falling open. Her palm was marked, blood raised from torn skin. The men didn’t look up as she rose, the pitcher in hand, and headed up the rickety stairs. She took a deep swig, the bitter tang sharp on her tongue.

She had expected the possible vitriol. Anger and hate were emotions she knew well. The stalwart faith she had also anticipated. The Kingdom had always been deeply entrenched in Church doctrine. But the apathy… she hadn’t been prepared for. Surely, that man was just one of many. Those who neither cared for the Church or the petty troubles of Kingdom politics. Somehow, this lack of concern was more distressing than any amount of rage. How many believed the same? And for how long had this mindset existed?

In the days when the Church and Kingdom were at their peak, were people ever truly in support? Or did they just stay their tongues for fear of earning the ire of both? Lady Rhea... What did the people truly think of her? Catherine mulled over the question alone, wondering at things she never thought to before.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Catherine had worked her way through half the pitcher before the door to the room finally opened. She paused, wooden cup nearly spilling its contents. Her eyes lifted blearily to irritated violet. Shamir stood in the threshold, lips slanted into a disapproving frown.

“I leave you alone and the first thing you think to do is drink?” The woman dropped a bulging pack of supplies onto the bed. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. This is just you acting as idiotic as ever.”

“I figured I’m owed.” Catherine shook her cup with an irreverent smile. “You did hog the last batch to yourself. This is my first taste in a long while.”

“And whose fault is that?” Shamir shot her a scornful glare. Catherine had the good sense to look away. Her expression fell along with her mood.

“Sorry. You’re right.” She tilted the cup to the side, swirling the dark liquid. “Honestly, I didn’t notice how much I drank. Idle hands and idle thoughts... you know.”

“I’m surprised, Catherine. Thinking isn’t really your thing.”

“Ha...” The Knight wiped her face wearily. “I suppose it isn’t. But even a stubborn dog has to stop and consider its actions every now and then.”

Shamir’s severe look dissipated. The woman took the chair opposite her. Her stare shifted into something cautious.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Too many things.” Catherine refilled her cup. A few stray drops trickled down the edge. “All of it useless. I doubt you want to hear any of it.”

“You would be surprised.” Shamir leaned back in the chair. Her face smoothed, far softer than her usual detached manner.

“That so?” Catherine looked up, clutching the cup to her lips. She swallowed a mouthful before nodding. “Alright. But you’re going to want me to shut up.”

“As if that’s stopped you before.”

“Fair enough.” Catherine chuckled wryly. She sobered, humor falling quickly away. “I was thinking about my uncle.”

“Why?” Shamir tilted her head, brow knitting.

“That’s who my brother was named after. Lord Argus Charon.” The Knight wiped her mouth on a sleeve. “I don’t remember much about him. He died young.”

“In battle?”

“No. It would have been far better if he had.” She rested the bulk of her weight against the table before her. It was a small and uneven thing, liable to break under her mass. She traced the raised grain with a nail. “He was a good man or so they say. But he was also softhearted. The Church had him complete some mission or another in his Academy days. Whatever Argus saw and did, he couldn’t make peace with it.”

“Some people are not built for war.” Shamir exhaled softly. “It’s a hard life and requires a strong mind.”

“My father said something similar.” Catherine took a steadying breath. “My uncle… he lost himself. Slowly and not all at once, but gone all the same. He was constantly sad and angry. He also drank a lot, funny enough.” She paused. Her hand fell away from the cup. “As a child, I thought the drink made him that way. I know better now, of course. Still, it was a surprise when he ended up drinking himself into an early grave. I asked my father why he did it. And do you know what he told me?”

Shamir didn’t respond. Her gaze was prying, searching in the way she often did. Catherine held those calculating eyes evenly.

“He was weak. Unworthy of his name and title.” She wrinkled her nose. “At the time, I agreed. And as I grew older, that opinion only deepened. Yet now, I find myself wondering if we were wrong. Should my uncle have been forced to go against his very nature? Should we have looked down on him for merely being too kind for bloodshed?”

“Fόdlan has always been strange to me, for making soldiers of mice.” Shamir pursed her lips. “That boy, Ignatz, he shouldn’t have taken the field. And neither should many of those who fell. But they did. In Dagda, we do not force warriors of weavers. Nor Princes of criminals.”

“So you’ve said.” Catherine licked her lips, catching a taste of bitter ale. “Do you think us terribly backward, Shamir, compared to your Dagdan sensibilities?”

“You already know that I do.”

“Yet you stayed and served a system you did not believe in. All in silence.” Catherine rubbed her eyes, sighing. “I’ve been wondering how many people were the same. Like you, or just as my uncle was.”

“That really is a useless line of thought,” Shamir commented. Catherine scowled, incensed, but stayed her tongue as the other woman flashed a sympathetic glance. “However, not in the way you might think.”

“Really? Enlighten me.”

“Hand a man a sword and he may kill. Or he may toss it aside. That’s the nature of Will.” Shamir crossed her legs. “In the end, it must be their choice. Ultimately, you are not responsible for the decisions other people make. Any responsibility you feel is merely a symptom of guilt.”

“It’s that cut and dry for you?”

“Not before, but...” Shamir’s eyes fell. She seemed distinctly troubled, in a way she usually feigned not to. “Recent events have given me a better perspective. As well as an appreciation for the right of choice.”

“Even if I almost get us killed?” Catherine asked. Her tone was caught between mirth and genuine question. Shamir appeared to notice this. Her gaze remained speculative.

“That was just you being foolish. If you actually gave any thought to your actions, it would be a different matter.” Despite her cold words, she reached out tentatively. Her fingers grazed Catherine’s. “I chose to follow you back in Fhirdiad and in Charon. If I had died, it wouldn’t–”

“It would have.” The Knight interrupted; sharp and cutting. “Don’t lie or try to coddle me. I know damn well whose fault it would have been. Had you died...”

She looked away, unpleasant memories rising to the fore.

“I still see it. The arrow gutting you. The blood that drenched my wrist as I pulled it free. The feel of your teeth as you struggled not to cry out. I can’t get rid of these thoughts. And if the arrow had been more precise...”

The words caught in her throat, refusing to flow free. She placed a hand over her brow and laughed; bleak and hollow.

“You speak of choice like it’s this wonderful thing where only personal responsibility matters. But that isn’t true. I’ve lived the contrary more often than not. My ‘will’, as you call it? That has only ever led to tragedy. I can’t be trusted to choose anything.”

“What do you mean?”

Catherine didn’t elaborate. She shook her head, letting her hand drop.

“It’s nothing.” She swallowed, mouth dry, before forcing a snicker. “I’m intoxicated. Ignore me.”

The taller woman rose, stumbling for effect. She gave her partner a weak smile.

“Sorry you had to hear all that. I know you’re not the sentimental type. I’ll try to keep those thoughts under lock and key next time.”

Catherine walked to the bed, fumbling with the clasps of her armor. Her fingers shook, much to her dismay. She frowned, ineffectually trying to free the metal. The Knight startled as a firm palm settled along her back.

“Come here.” Shamir tugged lightly, prompting the other woman to turn. “You know you’re a clumsy drunk.”

“As opposed to flirty and prone to sleep?” Catherine jerked as her partner pulled hard on the breastplate. Her knee buckled, and she staggered onto the bed. Surprised, the Knight looked up into annoyed violet eyes.

“How clumsy of you.” Dexterous fingers worked at the straps, easily lifting them free. Shamir lifted the plate up, allowing Catherine to slip the metal to the side. The Knight rolled her shoulders and relaxed onto the sheets.

“Much better. Goddess knows I might have been fiddling with it all night.” She grinned up at her partner. “What would I do without you?”

Shadows flit across the Dagdan woman’s face. Narrow brows pulled and slanted.

“In Charon, after we escaped...”

Catherine stilled at the name of her former home. Her smile twisted into a stilted grimace. Something flashed within a keen gaze and she knew Shamir had noticed the change. The woman was far too shrewd.

“You were in the midst of saying something.” Shamir took a step closer, standing in the gap between Catherine’s thighs. The Knight inhaled sharply. “What were you going to say?”

“Does it matter?”

A pale hand trailed along her jaw. The touch burned and Catherine couldn’t stop her heart from leaping. She breathed in, scenting wildflowers and pine.

“I want to know.”

“It wasn’t anything important,” Catherine hedged. “Just another useless thought I had.”

Shamir leaned in, lips parting.

“Are you sure?”

Catherine allowed her chin to be raised. Hesitantly, she bobbed her head in the affirmative. Shamir frowned and took a step back. Her fingers fell away. Catherine felt the loss like a physical blow.

“Wait.” The word escaped in a rush, dropping from her tongue without permission. She gathered herself as Shamir turned back to her. “I was going to say that you were all I had left.”

The Dagdan woman just blinked. She appeared taken aback, a rare occurrence for the composed mercenary. Catherine forged onward, ignoring the unease coiling in her chest.

“I wasn’t only thinking about my uncle. I also thought of the rest of my family... and you.” She bowed her head, averting her eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Shamir. Thunderbrand is lost to me, the Lady is gone, and the Goddess is painfully silent.”

The Knight sighed into her hands, face covered.

“I’ve tried to hear Her voice or glean some form of guidance, but there’s nothing. I thought She had been pushing me to Charon in order to reclaim my birthright. However, that turned out to be false. It was just my own selfish wish rising above common sense.” _The last hope of a girl who refuses to die. _Catherine’s lips pulled into a bitter snarl. “My own family was ready to do away with me, yet you remain by my side. And all I’ve rewarded you with is more strife.”

She peered up, exhausted suddenly.

“You should have left me. In Fhirdiad. In Conand. But you didn’t. I thought that meant the Goddess was guiding your actions; that the path we were on was just and true.”

“I didn’t save you at the behest of divine order.” Shamir’s expression clouded. “Let alone your Goddess.”

“I know. It was only what I wanted to believe.” Catherine replied. Her shoulders slumped in frustration. “The path I’m on now is uncertain. The way forward is unclear and I have no idea where it will bring us. My heart still yearns for vengeance — to storm Enbarr and cleave that snake in two. But trying would mean certain death. I cannot fight and I do not want to lose the only thing I still have left.”

“Catherine...” Shamir went to her, body bending until their brows met. The woman’s hands cradled the Knight’s face, thumbs gliding softly over her cheekbones. “You won’t lose me.”

“I always lose the things I care about most.” Catherine leaned into the touch. “I feel adrift in a way I’ve never felt before. There are no easy answers. No one and nothing I can turn to.”

“Am I ‘nothing’?”

“Of course not.”

“Turn to me, if you must.” Shamir pulled back, features open and calm. “But I would rather you charge ahead of your own volition. Change and upheaval is inevitable. What matters is that we’re not pulled under the chaos and rise above it. To do that, we must keep moving forward.”

“Is that what you’ve always done?”

“I thought I had. However, it was only the illusion of momentum.” The Dagdan woman fell silent for a long period. Then she sighed heavily. “But I want to try. With you.”

“I do as well,” Catherine admitted. She thought of a man long lost to her and the last look he gave as a blade pierced his chest. She was trapped there in some ways — still holding the hilt in her hands. Distantly, the Knight registered Shamir pulling away. Only heat was left in her wake.

“Your sister suggested we travel north.” The archer flung her jacket aside, shaking out her hair. The strands were growing long, Catherine observed. Dark locks fanned across the bottom of the woman’s neck. “I’m of a mind to agree. Sreng would not be a bad place to weather out the Empire’s hunt.”

“If Melaina suggested it, I’m not sure we should obey.” Catherine scowled petulantly. “She has a vested interest in turning us in.”

“She’s a clever woman and a skilled liar. Something that must have skipped you entirely.” Shamir tossed a quick glance over her shoulder. Catherine ignored the jab. “I know her type well. Place a bit of steel to their neck and they become far more honest.”

“So you trust her word?”

“I trust the logic behind it.” Shamir dipped a hand into the lukewarm basin. She plucked a nearby rag from the lip before soaking it through. “Winter will be coming fast and hard through northern Faerghus. The Imperial army is not trained for such conditions. I doubt the Emperor will stretch her forces thin maintaining the north. She will leave that to House Gautier, whose main concern has always been Sreng.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

Shamir only offered a tight-lipped glare.

“It’s certainly better than running off into the unknown.” She wiped her neck with the rag, continuing to eye her partner. “Don’t you agree?”

“You’ve made your point.” Catherine fell onto the bed, head hitting the pillow. “Fine. I concede to this plan of yours. Still, Sreng is...”

“Do you have a better plan in mind?”

“No.”

“Then I suggest you get used to the idea.”

Catherine turned, allowing her gaze to catch on the other woman. Shamir was oblivious to the scrutiny, patting at her arms and face with the damp cloth. Water glistened and fell along each pale slope, from the curve of her cheek to the dip of her throat. Her lashes were glossy with moisture and Catherine was reminded of how she appeared in the light of dawn. _Beautiful. Different and familiar all at once._

Something clicked within; a knowledge Catherine had always held but shied away from in fear. Images of blood and pain fled into the ether. She burned the present moment into her mind, engraving each heady sensation. The crisp rasp of cloth to skin. The sound of distant breathing. The smell of ash soap. All the while, the past stayed where it belonged. Catherine closed her eyes, trusting that when she opened them Shamir would still be there.

**Next Chapter - Clinker**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Do ya'll feel that slow burn simmer? I know I do. This chapter was sadly delayed due to needing a rewrite. I had planned to introduce a significant plot point, but it derailed the pacing too much. I figured we could use a low-key, contemplative chapter after all the hectic ones preceding this. I hope certain bits don't come across as too hokey. The scene with the mercenaries is pretty in your face, but I wanted to make a point while echoing their viewpoints in our three major characters for this chapter. We have Order, Chaos, and Neutrality functioning simultaneously; but there are drawbacks to every one of them as well as merits. We're going to conclude the 'travel' arc and begin tackling the final theme for this story quite soon. I hope you guys are enjoying yourselves so far! We're slowly pulling the Cathmir ship into port, but there's still some much-needed growth before we get there.
> 
> Have a wonderful day~ AdraCat


	8. Clinker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two women stumble on their uncertain journey. Where does the goal truly lie?  
A stolen moment from long ago unfolds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my beta johnxfire~

_Shamir did not often find herself mulling over her good fortune. It was not in her nature, nor had life been kind by any stretch. Everything she attained was earned in blood and kept just the same. Any victory was claimed by her own ability, not by anyone else’s efforts. Happenstance was an excuse others feigned subservience to, but for her? The Dagdan woman had no need for such trifles. Or so she attempted to tell herself._

_Yet on that distant day, when she danced within a warm embrace, Shamir considered it for a time. They had swayed together in time to an even beat; steps slow and easy. She had allowed her partner to take the lead, hiding a smile within the crook of Catherine’s neck. The other woman was oddly careful in her movements; near hesitant. Shamir had never seen her partner as such. Not before this moment._

_Typically, Catherine was confidence incarnate. Unassailable in her pride. Quick in her actions and even faster with a sharp retort. But here, she was playing the part of a mouse. Or, for a more apt description, a dog leery of disappointing its master. Shamir mulled over the image, imagining Catherine with a pair of pointed ears. She bit back a chuckle that threatened to pitch into an undignified titter. From the telling arch of her partner’s brow, the attempt wasn’t quite successful._

_“Something funny?” Catherine’s lips twitched, forming a bemused slant. The Knight’s grip tightened but not unkindly. “Does my rusty dancing amuse the fair Lady Shamir?”_

_“That wasn’t it.” The Dagdan woman averted her eyes. Catherine cocked her head, akin to the puzzled tilt most canines took on occasion. Shamir muffled another fit of laughter. “I was just considering what you would be like as a dog.”_

_“And that caused you to laugh? I don’t know whether to be offended or concerned.” Despite the exasperated tone, Catherine’s smile widened. “You know, of all animals, I think that would suit me best. Loyal, friendly, noble—”_

_“Stubborn, impulsive, and eager to please...” Shamir interrupted pointedly. Her mirth grew as Catherine balked. “But yes. All those other things as well.”_

_“I think I understand why you were laughing now,” the Knight grumbled. “Let me guess. In your mind, I’m no different from a drooling mutt. Is that right?”_

_“When the image is apt enough.”_

_“You’re a cruel woman.” Catherine feigned an aggrieved scoff. “But fine, if the comparison pleases you.”_

_“It was just an idle thought. Nothing more.” Shamir leaned back, catching the other woman’s gaze. She made a show of sweeping down Catherine’s form. “Hmm, perhaps a dog is too docile. Something dangerous might be more fitting.”_

_“And what comes to mind?”_

_Shamir brought her eyes back up. Underneath the light of countless chandeliers, the Knight was crowned in gold. Flaxen hair hung around her face in wild sweeps, curling at the ends. Her mouth was canted into a distinct tilt, not quite a smile but ready to ignite into one at a moment’s notice. Their stares met again and crystalline blue twinkled with visible levity. Suddenly, Shamir was reminded of the first time she saw those eyes. Cold and calculating, the picture of a predator in wait. Catherine’s smile had been false then. Sharp as it was threatening._

_“A lioness.”_

_“What?” In the present moment, far from the day she revealed her fangs, Catherine burst into laughter. “You’re only saying that because I was a Blue Lion once! Does old Hanneman remind you of an eagle then?”_

_“In the right light,” Shamir remarked offhandedly. A brief moment of quiet stole over them as she searched her partner’s face. “But I do think it fits you best. Something quick and fierce, with teeth to match.”_

_“That almost sounds like you’re intimidated.” Catherine’s smile dipped. “You know I’d never turn those ‘teeth’ on you. Don’t you?”_

_“Do I?” Shamir looked over the taller woman’s shoulder, focusing on the crowd. “I recall you being quite ready in the early days. Or did you watch me out of pure curiosity?”_

_“It was a different time.” Catherine’s voice lowered into a staid cadence. “Lady Rhea had just suffered through an attempted assassination. There wasn’t any room for error or second-guessing. And you...”_

_“You watched me because I was Dagdan. I knew that already. The other Knights did the same, much as they tried to say I was one of them.”_

_“That wasn’t the only reason.” The woman shook her head but did not elaborate further. She directed their movements into a slow sway. “Anyway, that was years ago. I trust you now. More than anyone else.”_

_Shamir blinked, startled by the abrupt declaration. She stared at her partner, noting the pensive cast to Catherine’s features._

_“Does this surprise you? It shouldn’t.” A flash of white teeth accompanied a deep chuckle. “You know, I’m suddenly reminded of an old story. The one about King Loog, Kyphon, and lies.”_

_“Is that supposed to mean anything to me?”_

_“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t know of it.” Catherine glanced to the side briefly. A young man, bold and testing his luck, had sidled up to them. He froze beneath the Knight’s glare and promptly darted back whence he came. Catherine’s posture relaxed._

_“The story takes place at the beginning of Loog’s reign. The young King was surrounded by many, from the wisest of men to the keenest of opportunists. But among those he consulted, it was Kyphon whom he trusted the most. Kyphon was honest in all things and never kept the truth from his dear friend.”_

_“This sounds very trite so far,” Shamir mused wryly. “Tell me, is honesty a trait so rare in Fόdlan that having it is seen as strange?”_

_“Let me finish first before you start complaining.” Catherine cleared her throat. “At the start of Loog’s rule, Faerghus was ravaged by war. The fields were barren, the people were starving, and bandits roamed aplenty. However, the King was oblivious to these happenings. He was not accustomed to thinking as a ruler of a nation and so relied purely on his council for guidance. But all of them were unwilling to displease the new King, so they only told him what he wanted to hear.”_

_“I gather the Kingdom suffered for this.”_

_“It did. But it was Kyphon, honorable and true, who finally confronted the King. The Knight told him of every injustice and plight that his people suffered. No matter how much it pained him to see his friend aggrieved, Kyphon revealed the ugly truth. Loog was aghast at his own blind complacency. Soon after, he executed every noble who had lied to him — for they were just as complicit in the suffering of his people.”_

_“A fitting end.” Shamir tilted her head, pondering over the details. “But how does that relate to you trusting me?”_

_“I suppose it’s because I know you would do the same.” Catherine hesitated for a time. The set of her mouth wavered slightly. “The nobility are hardly ever forthright. There’s always an angle to play or some ground to gain. Candor isn’t rewarded half as much as guile. Yet you, silent and secretive as you can be, have always been direct. I appreciate that part of you.”_

_“I see. Then, if I’m understanding the comparison right, I am the Kyphon to your King of Lions?”_

_“When you phrase it like that it sounds a bit silly.” Catherine smiled; a wonderfully broad thing that crinkled the edge of her eyes. “But I think it suits us. The tales do say they were inseparable partners.”_

_Shamir felt her breath catch as the Knight swept them both into a twirl. All the while, her gaze stayed upon sapphire and gold. Underneath the bright light of the reception hall, every color seemed magnified. And Catherine... She was a tapestry of brilliance no matter the palette. **מה הייתם עושים אם הייתם יודעים איך צבעתם את עולמ**י?_

_Abruptly, their dance came to an end as a rambunctious couple jostled past. Shamir clutched at her partner for stability, frowning at the two students. They both flushed under her glower before scurrying off into the crowd. Catherine mustered a knowing chuckle._

_“Heh. To be young and overeager once more. I wonder if they’re slinking away for an illicit rendezvous?”_

_“If they are, it would be your duty as a chaperone to go retrieve them.” Shamir sighed, stepping away from the other woman. Her hands fell reluctantly. “We should stop dancing. Knights aren’t meant to join the festivities.”_

_“If that’s what you want.” Catherine’s mood sobered, grin slipping in favor of neutrality. However, a peculiar air lingered; anticipation mingled with great reticence. As if the Knight wished to say something yet refused to voice it. Then the pervasive feeling dissipated as Catherine looked away. “All this flash and pomp is getting on my nerves anyway. How about we get some air? I think these brats are heading to the Goddess Tower.”_

_“Are you hinting we should go together?”_

_“Not at all.” Catherine snagged a glass from a passing servant. She wagged it with a playful shake of her wrist. “I just meant we could safely find a place to wind down. Preferably without kids gawking at us.”_

_“Hm.” Shamir hummed noncommittally. After a weighty pause, her eyes trailed up a tall frame and settled on the broad line of Catherine’s shoulders. To her pleasant observation, the Knight straightened discreetly. Blue eyes flashed with an unknown emotion. Catherine might have played the fool when it suited her, but she was not completely oblivious. Perhaps this was—_

_Shamir licked her lips and brushed aside a stray lock of hair. She did not miss the convulsive swallow Catherine took in response._

_“Lead on.”_

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ Five years... No, it’s been longer than that now._

Shamir stared at the sleeping woman across from her, bottom lip snared between her teeth. Her gaze settled upon Catherine’s chest. She counted each rise and fall, measuring her breath. The woman had fallen asleep long before she did. And still, Catherine had yet to awaken. The Knight was a deep sleeper by nature, but the recent stresses they suffered likely added to her exhaustion. Of late, Shamir had noticed the telling bruises of sleep deprivation underneath her partner’s eyes. The events of Charon had taken their toll, indeed.

The Dagdan woman slid her hand near Catherine’s face. Tentatively, she swept through the mussed fringe of wheat. The Knight did not stir, even as Shamir traced a path down her face. Catherine’s expression was relaxed in this moment, free of the tension that characterized her so fiercely these past few years. When was the last time she had seen her like this? Had it been that night at the ball?

Catherine’s brow furrowed suddenly, nose wrinkling. Shamir retreated and pulled her hand away. Careful not to disturb the slumbering woman further, she rose from the bed. There would be time to ponder such things when they were safe. Once they were in Sreng, far from the Empire’s reach, perhaps this line of thought could be revisited. Until then, her musings were better used for the situation at hand.

She dressed quickly before heading towards the door. At the threshold, Shamir paused and glanced at the sleeping woman once again. Catherine had twisted onto her side, back turned. An arm reached up to curl around a nearby pillow. In the dim glow of the morning, she looked at peace. It was an illusion, Shamir knew. Yet still, she could not stop herself from clinging to the sight. Reluctantly, the archer tore away from the door and into the hall.

The rest of the Inn was quiet, though she could not say it was from the early morning hours or from simple vacancy. Shamir stepped lightly nonetheless, heading down the steps to where the innkeeper should be. The man seemed the industrious sort, at least from what she surmised from their limited interactions. Surely, he would be inclined to rise with the break of dawn. As Shamir hit the foot of the stairs, she heard the low grouse of a masculine voice.

“So you haven’t seen a woman by that description?”

The question stopped her short. She stilled, listening further. A rattling of metal soon followed — the sound of plated feet scraping against wood.

“Can’t say I have. Not too many women travelin’ the road these days.” The inn keeper’s rustic drawl accompanied a rhythmic tap. “She a fugitive? Or a wayward noble lass?”

“The Empire is demanding her capture. That’s all you need to know.”

“Beggin’ ye pardon.” There was a brief pause. The tapping stopped abruptly. “My answer remains good sirs. Had a trio of mercenaries crawl through, but that’s the meat of it.”

A disgruntled huff sounded.

“What did I tell you? There’s little reason for that Dagdan cur to trek this way. She’s probably well on her way to Almyra by now.”

Shamir narrowed her eyes and slunk into the shadows. She pressed against the nearest wall.

“While that might be true, we can’t assume. Those trappers we spoke to seemed certain of what they saw.”

“A dark-haired woman carrying a bow is a broad description. Besides, they were keen for a reward. You know their type.”

“As you say...” A jangle of coin hit the air before it was interrupted by a heavy thud. “Should you see anything of worth don’t hesitate to reach out to the nearest barracks. Her Majesty would certainly see fit to reward you.”

“I’ll be keepin’ that in mind.”

The crisp creak of steel and leather heralded the men’s departure. Shamir waited in the dark, counting silently. After a few minutes, she finally saw fit to round the bend. The innkeeper looked up upon her arrival. His face was marked with clear tension. He rolled a few coins between his fingers and offered a wan smirk.

“Heard all that did ye?” The man bobbed his head faintly, but the gesture appeared more for himself than anything. “Figured ye might. Ye seemed the type to stalk the eaves.”

“You kept us hidden. I’m a bit surprised, considering the amount of gold they seemed ready to offer.” Shamir crossed her arms, scanning his weathered features. The keeper chuckled faintly.

“Ha… Has that given ye the impression I’m of a good nature? Not so. 'Twas only prudence on my part.” He tucked the glittering pieces away into his belt. “Had ye been slaughtered in my Inn, that would look right terrible. The story would stretch to the ends of Faerghus and I’d be out of more than a few good meals. Awful trade that would be.”

“How practical.” Shamir pursed her lips. “But I suppose I should thank your business sense. Tell me, are they the only patrol you’ve seen?”

“Imperial troops have rustled through ever since Fhirdiad’s fall.” The man scratched his nose idly before clicking his tongue. “They’ll be back again. Assuredly as the sun rises. Mayhaps with more than a few stray questions.”

“...Then we’ll take our leave.” Shamir turned to the stairs. “No matter your reasons, I thank you for stilling your tongue.”

“'Twas no trouble of mine. But...” The innkeeper waffled, words drifting into sudden silence. Shamir frowned and eyed him from her periphery.

“What?”

The man rubbed his jaw. Dark grey eyes glittered with faint contemplation.

“That woman, the one you travel with, she looked familiar to me.” He tossed his head, lips twitching into a befuddled wince. “I may be long in years, but I’m good with faces. If I’m not mistaken, is she not Ser Catherine of the Church?”

Shamir said nothing for a moment. Her eyes bored into the man’s, holding steady.

“Ser Catherine died in the fires of Fhirdiad. Slain in just cause by Her Majesty and her generals.” She let the words drop languidly from her lips, easy as water pouring from a sieve. “From what I gather, the Knight’s body was found clutching her relic in the ashes of the city.”

“Ah. Forgive the gaff.” The man relaxed visibly, contrition morphing his smile into a wince. “Ye woman is rather striking. A lucky pair ye be.”

“So we are.” Shamir’s response was carefully bland. She blinked at him, taking his measure. The innkeeper did not seem false in his regret, nor did he stare at her with anything other than meager interest. He fished a rag out from his pocket and strode to the bar, seeming to dismiss her entirely. The man was odd as well as a clear opportunist, but he did not strike her as particularly clever. Satisfied he would not pose a threat, Shamir walked away.

Yet her mind still turned with dreaded possibility. The Empire had not found them, but they were near enough to cause some concern. She knew they would hunt her for a time. Attacking a prominent member of the Emperor’s forces was not something they could ignore. However, the hunt would stop once her trail cooled. Her actions were malicious, but far from deadly. Captain Leonie had lived to tell the tale, after all. Should they get wind of Catherine, the situation would change.

Unease curled in her gut, hot and heavy. She reached for the blade that should have been kept at her side but grasped only air. Confusion gnawed at her but was soon washed away as she recalled the shattered remnants of steel. The broken blade lay wrapped with its sheathe, unusable and inert within a worn satchel. Shamir balled her hand into a fist. It remained that way, even as she re-entered their room.

To her minute surprise, Catherine had roused herself from sleep. The woman was standing by the window, arms gripping each other tight. Her back was turned and set with clear agitation.

“Did you sleep well?”

Shamir watched, puzzled, as her partner nearly leapt out of her skin. The Knight whirled on her heel, stumbling against the window frame.

“Shamir...” Catherine whispered her name in a rush, as if thrown by her very presence. Blonde brows furrowed deeply. “There you are. Honestly, you _could_ tell me when you decide to take off. It would save me the trouble of worrying after you.”

“I was only gone for a few minutes.” Shamir wandered to their bags, only deigning to toss her partner an unimpressed look. “Does the hypocrisy of that statement dawn on you? If not, perhaps you should think harder.”

“That’s—” Catherine’s severe expression collapsed into a grimace. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just… With everything that happened lately, I suppose I’m a bit on edge.”

Shamir relented at her partner’s downcast tone. She exhaled slowly.

“It’s fine. We should concentrate on packing up and moving on.” The archer thumbed the last of their coin with a frown. It was enough to get them to the border, if only by a scant few pieces. They would need to conserve and rely upon the grace of wildlife if they didn’t wish to starve. “Imperial scouts are prying around. It would be wise to leave before they get wind of us.”

“Lovely.” Catherine scoffed, raking a hand through her hair. Irritation colored her features. “The first good rest I’ve had in a while and the Empire is keen to ruin it like always.”

“Sleeping on a proper bed and not in the dirt will do that.” Shamir sent her partner an amused smirk. She turned, having finished sorting their supplies, only to blink as Catherine appeared at her side. The woman’s features were composed, lacking in mirth or mockery.

“That wasn’t the reason.”

Shamir tensed, off-kilter, as the Knight neared. Something conflicted and weary colored Catherine’s features.

“Last night, did you mean everything you said?”

Shamir opened her mouth, voice catching in her throat. She bit her cheek and averted her gaze to the bed. Much as she cared for Catherine, emotional intimacy was not something she was practiced in. It implied a certain vulnerability she was unaccustomed to. Even Solomon had not been able to pry past all her walls.

No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Comparatively, she had known Catherine for far longer than her first love. Of anyone in her life, surely, the woman who bled and suffered at her side deserved this much from her. Shamir lifted her eyes to meet the plaintive sky of Catherine’s.

“Yes. I did.” She took a deep pull of air and held it. “You’ll find me rather difficult to be rid of. We’re both too stubborn for anything less.”

The Knight drew back, seemingly stunned. Then she threw back her head and laughed. It was brighter than any she had given in the past five years; light and free as the wind. Shamir closed her eyes with a smile, secretly etching the sound upon her heart. _אני אשאר לצידך__, __קתרין__. __זה מה שהבטחתי לך__._

“You may be right about that.” Catherine chuckled. Her gaze was soft, far from any inhospitable metal or ice. “Shall I count on forever then?”

Shamir didn’t answer, but she imagined the other woman already knew what she would say. In the end, the Dagdan woman merely reached out her hand and waited patiently. She was not disappointed.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They departed soon after, careful to avoid any stray soldiers. Swiftly, they rode to the north, keeping an eye for Imperial banners. As they passed through the former lands of House Blaiddyd, Shamir knew patrols would be difficult to avoid. Fhirdiad was assuredly a burnt husk of its erstwhile glory, but the Empire was not one to set aside potential assets. Edelgard would rebuild the city, if only as a display of power and influence. To that end, it was not a surprise to see the charred outskirts covered in blackened steel.

They did not take their chances, nor linger so close to the perimeter. The city remained safely far from their eyes, but the aftermath of flame could not be evaded. The surrounding trees were a mixed stretch of brown and black. Some were scorched by fire and others in the midst of decay. Many were scored by conflict, bark peeling back like flayed skin. Arrows littered the grass, crunching beneath their heels. Even more lay within the heart of towering oaks, rising from pocked holes like needles.

Months had passed since the razing of Fhirdiad yet the land still bore the scars of war. It would possibly remain as such for years to come. As they neared the edge of the Fhirdiad woods, Catherine’s mood took a dour turn. Her expression was perpetually grave, growing more so with each day that passed. Shamir eyed her partner as they traveled, trying to read the woman’s mood. However, Catherine remained painfully silent. She kept her eyes to the north, never daring to glance in the city’s direction. For all the world, the Knight appeared to think little of the events which brought her this far. But the nights they spent camped within those scorched woods alluded to otherwise.

Night terrors were a common thing for soldiers. It was inevitable when one chose a life of bloodshed. Catherine had never been predisposed to them — or the woman had been adept in keeping it to herself if she did. Yet recently, the opposite held true. Shamir often awoke to the sound of her partner’s muffled gasps.

She would watch in concern as Catherine twisted beneath the blanket. The Knight’s brow would be sodden, hands trembling and teeth gnashed. Shamir would wake the woman, touch as gentle as she could manage. Wild blue eyes would open then and dart manically; a feral curl to Catherine's mouth. Thankfully, the woman usually settled into a more restful sleep after these events. But the dreams themselves never seemed to abate.

Shamir attempted to broach her about the dreams, but Catherine denied the experience entirely. The Knight would simply chuckle distantly before waving her away.

_ “Night terrors? I haven’t had those since I was a child.” A false smile slipped tight across bloodless lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Shamir.”_

Reluctantly, the Dagdan woman allowed the prevarication. Catherine did not respond well to being pushed. So the pattern continued, refusing to break even as they moved beyond the bounds of the Blaiddyd outskirts. Eventually, after weeks of forging ahead without end, they finally crossed the border of Gautier. The northernmost point of Faerghus was a harsh and mountainous terrain. The land stretched along a rocky crown that intersected with Sreng, serving as the only vanguard against barbarous invasion from the north.

In peaceful years, the mountain range would be heavily guarded. However, the recent collapse of Faerghus seemed to have rent the forces of House Gautier in twain. Such a lapse in guard should have been costly. The tribes of Sreng were often keen to press any advantage. But winter came fast and without warning in these isolated lands. Even the most savage of raiders would not rail against nature’s bite. And neither would the Emperor; a fact Shamir was willing to bet on.

As they moved further within the bounds of Gautier, cold winds nipped with the promise of frost. The conditions worsened as they began their perilous ascent into the mountainside, much to Shamir’s dismay. She clutched her jacket tight, despairing at their lack of coin. Had they the funds and means, this journey would not have been necessary. They could have been well on their way to Brigid or Dagda had Catherine come to her senses sooner. Alas, it was not so and now they toiled deep into the unpleasant wasteland that served as Faerghus’ geographical shield. Deciding not to think on it further, the archer buried herself deeper beneath the hood of her cloak.

It was during this trek, surrounded by spires of white birch, that Shamir found her partner staring out over the land. The path they were on loomed over Faerghus, keen as any bird’s lofty eye. They had yet to reach the canyon trail, but their elevation was enough to peer across the former Kingdom. Catherine had paused above a steep overhang, arms crossed around herself. Her gaze was stony as she stared to the south. Shamir stepped beside her.

“We should hurry. I would rather not make camp within a rocky gorge.” Her eyes flicked to the sky. Dark clouds encroached from the west, blotting the sun from view. “A storm is brewing.”

“A storm is always brewing. You can blame my crest for that.” Catherine leaned forward, favoring her bad leg. Her stare never left the distant horizon. “All these years and I’ve never been this far north. It’s a strange feeling.”

“Are you afraid?”

“No. It’s not fear.” The woman took a measured breath. “And yet it’s close to it. Trepidation maybe? A lingering uncertainty?”

“It’s normal to be wary of the unknown.” Shamir watched the Knight closely, taking in the rigid set of her partner’s jaw. “But we need to keep moving forward if we want to survive.”

“Moving forward...” Catherine paused, the wind catching her hair. She tilted her chin down, brow obscured by shadow. “Is that really what we’re doing? I wonder about that.”

“What are—” Shamir jolted as a thunderous boom drowned out her words. Next to her, the other woman laughed. It was an odd reverberating sound, mingling with the rolling thunder. Shamir had never given much credence to Catherine’s claim of effecting the weather. Suddenly, it seemed far more plausible. She blinked as the Knight straightened.

“We should find shelter before the rain starts.”

Catherine limped away, never glancing back. Shamir watched as her figure faded slowly from view. Then she turned and stared at the spot Catherine had once fixed her gaze. In the distance, the great forest of Fhirdiad seemed rather sparse. With the sun thoroughly concealed, the canopy of trees appeared like plumes of smoke stretching across the world. Shamir swallowed her unease before following behind the other woman.

The storm did not escalate, much to their mutual relief. The rain was mercifully light, if a steady presence as they journeyed higher. The mountain path quickly became slick, mud clinging tight to boot and trouser hem. Shamir tried not to think of the various ways they could meet their end. But as the road devolved into rocky slopes and sunken pits, she could not deny a sense of growing danger.

As far as she knew, the canyon was not formally named, but the name had colloquially been dubbed Sreng’s Maw ever since King Lambert had invaded. It had a reputation for claiming the lives of many an unwary traveler. From abrupt rock-slides to hidden bandits hiding betwixt cavern and shadow. Sreng war parties were also an ever-present threat; but hopefully, the storm would be enough to keep all latent peril at bay.

In the canyon’s heart, a river bled from the northern sea and carved deep through the stone. It raced below, water white as snow and broken only by jagged rapids. The river was a pulsating thing that flexed and spat whatever entered its chaotic beat. And it was because of this untamed force of nature that a towering bridge provided the only passage across. Yet as they reached the spot where the bridge should lay, the impossibility of traveling further revealed itself.

Shamir stared at the serrated gap where an unblemished path should have been. The bridge, once grand and whole, had collapsed into the river. The drop, a solid ten meters at the very least, bore evidence of the recent disaster. Bridge remnants arched from the rushing water and reached for the heavens in grisly mockery. Large slabs of rock stood in uneven spires within the froth, revealing what must have happened. A catastrophic rock-slide had likely destroyed the structure, viciously and without ceremony.

The Dagdan woman blinked away the rain, shocked. She wrapped a hand around the horse’s reins, keeping the animal from straying too close. Her partner did not seem to share this hesitance. Catherine walked to the edge and peered down. Then she began to chuckle humorlessly.

“And so our journey ends with a pathetic whimper.” Her voice was muffled, lost to the howling wind. The Knight lifted her hand and cupped her mouth. She stood there for a prolonged instant, lips pulling above her teeth. Then, she bit down upon her knuckle. Suddenly, Catherine snarled; a bestial cry that ripped from her chest. The yell echoed across the canyon, fusing with the growing storm. Shamir looked away. Water trailed down her cheeks.

“We should head back down. Perhaps there’s a lesser-known path we could take.”

“Why? So we can find the next roadblock?” Catherine ran a hand through her soaked hair, jaw working with vexation. “What’s next, I wonder? Marauders in the canyon belly? A pack of starving wolves?”

“Catherine—”

“The Goddess Herself could rip us asunder and I wouldn’t be surprised.” Catherine spun and stomped towards the trail. “It’s what She desires, isn’t it? I evaded death and now the Goddess requires Her due.”

Shamir grabbed her partner gently as she passed.

“Catherine.” She forced the woman to face her, locking their eyes together. “Calm yourself.”

“I_ am_ calm.” The Knight bristled at the command, but she did not pull away. Shamir heard her take a shuddering inhale. The other woman’s color was high, red stretching from brow to throat. “We came all this way and it was for nothing. Everything we’ve done so far has been for _nothing_. Conand. Charon. Now, Sreng.”

Catherine’s eyes fell to the ground.

“Even Fhirdiad was for naught. We’ve run all across this miserable country and have nothing to show for it. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“We’re alive.” Shamir touched the taller woman’s shoulder. Damp cloth crumpled beneath her fingertips. “That’s enough for now. There will be time for more later.”

Catherine did not look satisfied with the answer. She opened her mouth, perhaps ready to retort, but said nothing. Conflicted blue eyes reflected the rain in scattered fragments. A fierce gust swept past, chilling them both. Shamir stepped closer to the Knight reflexively. Catherine blinked down at her, resigned.

“I suppose we’ll need to retrace our steps.” The other woman smiled thinly. “It’s a little funny, isn’t it? How moving forward can mean returning whence you came.”

Shamir didn’t have a response for that. She merely frowned and stole a glance at the ruined bridge. As another peal of thunder rumbled, she pressed her teeth together. The sound rattled inside her rib cage, shaking each bone.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The wind was too fast and the rain too fierce for them to sleep in the open. The storm had strengthened into a tempest, bending tree and passersby alike. They searched fruitlessly for a cave to bed down in, but the canyon was reluctant to give any reprieve. The rocks remained sheer and devoid of enclosures. Failing in this, they made the unenviable descent back to the canyon mouth. An isolated settlement lay east of the trail; it was small and unlikely to house an inn, but they could not afford to overlook the possibility. They just needed to reach the village first.

Shamir clung to their mount, using the animal’s mass to shield herself. Her movements were labored as she tried to keep steady. Catherine, addled and still adjusting to disability, fared far worse. The woman strained with each lumbering step, half-leaning against the animal she claimed to despise. The mare proved a stalwart companion so far and withstood the buffeting winds and icy rain admirably. Yet despite this, the horse’s flank still shook violently underneath their hands. None of them would last if they did not find shelter soon.

Finally, respite came in the form of lights hovering in the distance. Through a cluster of trees, they shone like stars through the dark. Candlelight. Great and numerous, by the look of it. As they pressed closer, a large building entered into view. A warm yellow glow suffused each pane, cutting through the veil of rainfall. Shamir squinted up at the wooden mass. It was hard to parse what it was, as night had fallen and the storm still raged to their backs. It had a roof. And for now, that was all that mattered.

She rushed to the towering doors and pried them open. Then, she tugged the exhausted horse inside. Catherine followed after, grimacing. The woman collapsed against a nearby wall. Her features were noticeably pale under the sheen of moisture.

“Damn it,” Catherine grunted once before sliding to the ground. She held her scarred leg, breathing heavily. Shamir shut the doors tight before glancing down at her partner.

“Are you…?”

“I’m fine,” the Knight denied. She made a faint noise of frustration. “Stupid thing is just cramping. These muscles aren’t conditioned. What little is left anyway.”

Shamir chose not to comment. She watched the other woman for a time.

“If you’re certain. At least now we can rest a bit.” The archer shifted her gaze to the building interior. It was brightly lit, brass chandeliers and lanterns lining the ceiling. To her surprise, an orderly row of pews stretched to the center. And at the room’s head, stood a cavalcade of statues. The Saint’s themselves. Shamir frowned, eyeing them with mounting disquiet.

They were in a cathedral. Yet from the burning candles and meticulously organized furniture, it appeared inhabited; a far cry from the dilapidated church in Port Toraigh. Shamir stepped further in, only to pause as movement caught her eye. Suddenly a figure strode out from the shadows. Shamir tensed, hand flying to her bow.

“What sort of bedraggled cats be this, to have come here so late?” The person wandered near, voice high if rasped with age. Wispy brown locks protruded from their hood, the length streaked with grey. They looked up, bearing their face to the light. It was a woman, her features weathered and lined. Her face was atypically broad, rounded not with fat but bone. “Tell me now. Be you bandit? Indecorous soldier?”

“We are only weary travelers seeking shelter from the storm.” Shamir allowed her hand to fall from her weapon. She did not miss the hissing crackle of magic that covered the woman’s fingers. “We mean you no ill will. Our coin is few, but if you would allow it–”

“Coin?” The presumed nun scoffed. “Nay. I’ll not take your gold.”

She looked over Shamir’s shoulder. Her eyes stilled upon Catherine’s prone form.

“Are you injured? I can mend most things, save a missing limb or two.”

“I’m fine.” The Knight staggered to her feet, mustering a weak grin. “Old war injury. It gets irritated if I stand too long.”

“Understandable.” The nun bobbed her head idly. She appeared to take their measure for a moment. “Travelers, you say? This far north? I can’t say I understand why you’ve come so far, but I’ll not kick you out into the flood. The Goddess looks down on those who do not give back when able.”

“Thank you.” Shamir found herself relaxing, the tension of the day finally slipping off.

“It’s no trouble.” The older woman scanned them again, frowning. “You’ll both catch your death if you stay as soaked as you are. Come with me. Our facilities are small, but it’ll be enough to get you dry and clean.”

With a swift beckon of her arm, the nun turned and strode towards the back corner. Shamir blinked after her, somewhat thrown by the easy acceptance. Church or no, the clergy did not often help people without recompense. At least, none that she had seen. Catherine hobbled next to her.

“Perhaps I was too quick in my fears.” Her partner offered a bone-tired smile. “The Goddess can’t be too displeased with us.”

“Did you truly believe your goddess was angry?” Shamir craned her head to stare at the Knight. Catherine lifted her shoulders into a limp shrug.

“I don’t know.” She braced herself against the pews, expression drawn. “Maybe so, or maybe I’m just speaking nonsense because I’m tired and wet. Either way, it’s not as if my faith concerns you. Feel free to ignore me.”

Catherine ambled off, heading to where the nun had vanished. Shamir hesitated before trailing after. The cathedral dormitories were surprisingly empty, not a single soul other than the nun within its confines. It was strange, but not entirely unexpected. The Emperor’s reforms had taken effect from the moment she conquered Faerghus. That included the dissolution of the Church of Seiros and all its teachings. The proof of this was more readily apparent in the southern reaches of Faerghus. Every church they passed on their travels was usually abandoned or sparsely manned.

Shamir was tempted to ask how their community fared in the war’s aftermath. It was clear from the expansive living area that several clergy had once been in attendance. Yet the woman was the only one left, it seemed. As the helpful mage placed a bundle of clean clothes within their arms, Shamir decided against it. She did not wish to accidentally incite the nun’s ire. Soon, both were dry and settled within a cozy room at the end of the corridor. The nun had graciously offered them the option for separate quarters, but a shared look between the fatigued women put that idea aside.

“We’re more comfortable resting together,” Shamir explained quickly. The rapid response earned an odd look from the nun. The woman’s brows flew above her bangs.

“Very well. I’ll not fight you on that.” She set down a folded blanket upon the bed. “If you require anything I’ll be just down the hall.”

“Thank you again...” Shamir fell quiet, realizing she did not know the nun’s name. The older woman seemed to notice as much and tipped her head.

“Sister Bothild, but you may forgo any titles as you please.” The nun smiled gently, her lightly wrinkled face filled with warmth. “You may stay as long as you need. Here in the north, storms usually last longer than a short spell. I think I’ll tend to that horse of yours now. The poor thing was shivering something fierce.”

The woman bowed before sweeping out of the room. Shamir turned to look at her partner, only to find her already settling underneath the coverlet. Catherine groaned as her head hit the pillows.

“What a trial of a day… Next time, I suggest we stop immediately if it begins to rain.” The Knight rolled her arms, stretching. “Damn weather. I thought we’d get washed down the canyon.”

“It was fortunate we stumbled upon this place.” Shamir glanced around the quarters, noting the sparse furniture. “The village must be nearby. How far do you think?”

“Why? You planning to rob these poor fools blind?”

The Dagdan woman pursed her lips. She sent her partner a glower.

“I wouldn’t steal from a community this small. Nor would I risk rousing a mob.” Shamir glanced out the window. The rain was pouring in thick sheets, pounding against the glass. “We’ll need a way to make some coin soon. I had thought we could find some work in Sreng, but...”

“That’ll be hard to do with the bridge out.” Catherine scratched her chest, borrowed shirt riding up along her stomach. Shamir kept her eyes fixed on the sill. “We can figure it out tomorrow. I’m sore and entirely too drained for this sort of thinking.”

Shamir faced her, dissatisfied by the response. Any further inquiry was derailed as the sky thundered once more. The rumbling growl shook across her skin. Shivering, Shamir allowed the conversation to cease. She climbed under the sheets, conscious of her partner’s stare. Catherine was looking at her intently, head resting atop her forearm. As Shamir settled in, a peculiar emotion shone within a crystalline gaze.

“What?” The Dagdan woman asked. She struggled not to shift beneath that prying look. After a long pause, Catherine blinked and turned on her side.

“It’s nothing.”

Soon, they settled into silence. Shamir closed her eyes, focusing on the sound of the storm overhead. The rain thrashed against the roof in an even beat, similar to a waterfall’s edge. Wind pushed at the walls, causing them to groan under the pressure. Time passed — slow and steady like a faucet drip. Yet, tired as she was, Shamir could not find the realm of dreams. She stayed within the solid space of reality, painfully aware of each breath she took. After what felt like an eternity, Shamir heard a muffled sigh. Then the bed flexed beneath her as Catherine moved.

“Shamir, are you awake?”

The Dagdan woman did not respond. She remained still and kept her eyes closed. Part of her wanted to answer, but for reasons beyond her ken, she stilled her tongue. Above, the sky continued to groan.

“I suppose that was too much to hope for.” Catherine exhaled heavily. “I wish I could sleep so easily. Even when I dream, it doesn’t feel like I’m truly resting.”

There was a long pause followed by a stir of cloth.

“You asked me what I dream of. Do you still want to know?”

Catherine waited for a time as if expecting a reply. Then, she continued.

“It isn’t anything pretty or pleasant. Before, I was able to put the war out of my mind. It happened and now it was over; that was how I rationalized it. But now...”

Shamir heard her partner’s teeth click together.

“It’s not just Fhirdiad, though that is the largest part. I dream of things before that day too. It mingles together, twisting up until it's one endless nightmare. Then, it all convenes in one place. The courtyard where I failed Lady Rhea.”

Catherine chuckled; a wry and mirthless thing.

“And then I’m on my hands, crawling through all the mistakes I made. Pushing against ash, blood, and bone. Yet it’s too much. Slowly, my body is consumed by flame. And lately, I can’t help but think — is that the fate I was meant to have?”

Shamir struggled not to speak. Catherine’s pain echoed in her own chest, but she hesitated at cutting the woman off. Her partner was hardly candid. The Knight preferred to keep her thoughts and fears hidden. Catherine would surely stop if she knew. So Shamir bit her tongue, copper flooding her mouth.

“Failure haunts me. I don’t imagine that’s something you would understand,” Catherine whispered bitterly. “Every decision I’ve made has ended in disaster. I thought joining the Knights would resolve me of that pain, but… Lady Rhea...”

Catherine fell quiet for a time.

“I don’t know what will happen next or what we should do. And I can’t… I can’t trust the Goddess to care.”

Shamir felt the woman move closer. Their hands touched briefly.

“A part of me is relieved to be alive and to be with you, most of all. However, would it have been better if you had left me to burn?”

Catherine took her hand away and turned again. There, she finally stilled. More time passed as the Knight’s breathing evened. Shamir opened her eyes and stared at the line of her partner’s back. She drank down the blood in her mouth, heart aching.

  
  


* * *

_The evening had grown late, bringing with it a light chill. Yet despite the dropping temperature, Shamir could not find it within herself to care. She smiled, genuinely and freely, as Catherine led her out into the night. Eventually, they made their way to the upper dormitories. Reflexes fogged by wine, Shamir nearly tripped over her partner as they finally reached an empty balcony. She clung to the taller woman, not quite giddy but close. Catherine steadied her with a laugh._

_“I never thought I’d see the day the ever graceful Shamir would lose her footing.” Her partner grinned, something wild and uninhibited in her sapphire eyes. “I’m seeing all sorts of new sides to you tonight. I like it.”_

_“You act as if I’m made of stone.” Shamir leaned away, but she kept her hands wrapped around a sturdy arm. “You know damn well that’s not the truth.”_

_“It can be hard to tell.” Catherine pretended to think. The twitching of her mouth belied her attempt at solemnity. “You are quite intimidating. All the new recruits tremble before you for a reason.”_

_“And what of you? Doesn’t everyone quake at the sight of Thunder Catherine?”_

_“Ha! They piss themselves with fear, but only because they see you glaring daggers behind me.” The Knight walked to the balcony rail, resting the bulk of her mass against it. “If I am the sun, bright and bold, you are the shadow I cast.”_

_“How terribly egotistical of you.” Shamir rolled her eyes. She took her place by Catherine’s side. “If we’re applying our relationship to metaphor I would prefer to be the moon.”_

_“You are radiant enough for it.” The Knight’s careless grin shifted into something wistful. “But I can’t say I prefer that scenario. I think it would be rather lonesome to be forever separated from you.”_

_“You should be careful, Catherine, in revealing your soft under-belly to me.” Shamir nudged against her flank. She smirked at her partner. “I may decide to go for the throat one day.”_

_“It would be an interesting death. Just be sure to make it a clean bite.” Catherine chuckled playfully before shifting her gaze over the balcony. “Heh. There’s a lot of kids still heading towards the Goddess Tower. Adorable and precocious little shits.”_

_“Love tends to find the young more often than the old.”_

_“You wound me. Am I a spinster in your eyes?”_

_“By its very definition.” The Dagdan woman replied smoothly. “But perhaps ‘old’ is the wrong word. Maybe world-weary would be a more apt term.”_

_“Well, the young are welcome to it. I’ve made peace with the lack of love in my life.”_

_“And what of your own academy days?” Shamir looked to her partner, curious. “Was there someone for whom your heart fluttered? Or a nobleman who possibly courted you?”_

_“As if they would dare.” Catherine threw back her head and laughed. “No, there wasn’t anyone like that. I had a few dalliances, short and reasonably sedate affairs. Nothing that I genuinely considered taking further.”_

_“So you’ve never been in love?”_

_Catherine’s expression fell. Her lips twisted as she thought for a time._

_“Not in the sense you’re thinking of. I was fond of a few people, but in love? I can’t say I ever felt that.” She glanced at the archer, eyes searching for something unknown. “At least, not back then. If I was forced to define what I feel for the people in my life now… there may be someone who fits that emotion.”_

_Shamir did not like assumption as a general rule. People were unpredictable and scattered creatures with whims as varied as their choices. But at that moment, Shamir dared to think she knew who Catherine meant. The Knight was oblivious to her thoughts, however. She merely adopted a broad smile before peering at the shorter woman._

_“Anyway, enough about me. You mentioned having a partner before me. Were the two of you…?”_

_“We were involved, yes,” Shamir confirmed. She breathed in, thinking of the man she had lost. Before, she would not have been able to do so without a gnawing pain in her chest. But now, the agony had cooled to a fond ache. She would always miss him, but Solomon was a ghost she had long since buried._

_“How did the two of you meet?” Catherine inquired gently. Shamir looked up at the sky. The night was cloudless, bearing a bright mosaic of stars. They twinkled without end, the one constant the world could not change._

_“We had both chosen the mercenary life from a young age. When you live in the shadow of the great cities, there is not much luxury for those without means. So you pick up a trade or the sword.” She fluttered her hand in an airy wave. “Solomon. That was his name. We were contracted into the army around the same time when tensions with the Empire flared. I was young, far more than him, and had never fought in a war. He took me under his wing, taught me how to wield a dagger, and much more than that.”_

_Shamir paused, caught in those distant days._

_“We were friends, at first. But as the months passed and we fought and bled alongside each other, slowly our relationship changed.” She shook her head and pushed aside the memories. “It was easy, to love him. First loves are often like that, I believe.”_

_“I wouldn’t know.” Catherine chuckled, but it sounded pensive. “Although… I might have had someone like that, once upon a time. It wasn’t romantic love, but it was love all the same. I thought he would always be—" The Knight stopped abruptly. Then she looked away and cleared her throat. “I digress. It’s good that you had that. Even if it didn’t last forever, you have the memory of love.”_

_“Are you implying I’ll never find love again?”_

_“What? No!” Catherine flinched back sheepishly. “I just meant it’s wonderful you can keep those memories with you. Someone like you should have no trouble finding love again, if you wish it.”_

_“Someone like me?” Shamir arched a brow. Truthfully, she expected her partner to back down or divert the conversation. That would have been more characteristic of the other woman. But Catherine refused to do either. She held Shamir’s gaze evenly._

_“Someone patient and uncommonly thoughtful.” Her voice lowered into a soft murmur. “Who pretends to not care but secretly does. Someone kind in the smallest of ways and... so very beautiful.”_

_The words Shamir prepared to say evaporated. She stared at Catherine, heart racing in her chest. All doubt and trepidation fled, leaving only the strong pulse of certainty. Her mouth parted. Then, a flurry of motion, she leaned forward and seized her partner’s lips. The Knight stilled under the touch yet Shamir didn’t stop. It was a gentle touch more than anything sordid. Still, it filled the younger woman with hope as Catherine did not jerk away._

_Then, her partner seemed to melt into her grasp. Warm lips moved beneath hers, deepening their embrace. Breath halted, Shamir leaned back to sip at the air. Catherine followed with growing urgency, pressing her against the balcony rail. Thrilled, the Dagdan woman leaned into her and reached for the Knight’s wild tresses. There, her fingers entwined with silken gold. Suddenly, she felt an eager tongue trace the seam of her mouth. Shamir groaned as she allowed her partner entry, arching against a muscular frame._

_The cold mountain air was forgotten as they lost sense of time and place. Even as the wind rustled past, Shamir could only feel the burning heat of Catherine’s mouth and the languid drag of fingers tracing her side. How long had it been since she had been touched? She gasped as a questing hand slipped beneath her shirt. Heated palm pressed to her ribs. How long had she wanted this? Her?_

** _כמה זמן אהבתי אותך?_ **

_Shamir raked a hand down her partner’s back, the other still tangled within blonde hair. She felt Catherine bend, a desperate whine escaping her. Shamir hummed into the kiss, tongue glancing against its mate. And like ice, Catherine froze under her touch. With a strained laugh, the Knight stumbled backward._

_“Wow. That, uh… that got out of hand.” Shaky hands ran through mussed locks. “We drank a bit too much I think.”_

_Shamir said nothing, choosing to blink at her partner. Blue eyes, dark as a midnight sea, distinctly avoided her._

_“I guess that’s what we get for imbibing at an academy event.” Catherine’s voice was rough, low with whatever feelings she refused to confront. Shamir narrowed her eyes and sidled close. She reached for her partner’s face, placing a hand to an olive cheek. Catherine, despite her words, did not pull away. The woman just stared, conflict etched into each line and curve of her face._

_Shamir arched onto her toes, trying to catch her partner’s mouth again. It glistened in the dark, still wet with their earlier passion. To her dismay, Catherine turned her head before their lips met. Shamir dropped onto her heels. Disconcerted blue glanced to the side and she followed the path they made. Her gaze settled atop the distinctive building that housed the Archbishop’s throne. A knot settled in her throat. She set her jaw and leaned her head along Catherine’s shoulder._

_“Rhea?”_

_The Knight was silent, but Shamir did not need an answer. Not truly. She already knew what it would be. Shamir pushed away from the other woman. Something sharp and jagged pierced beneath her breast. Bitter regret replaced every joy she had experienced this evening. It sat on her tongue, washing away the taste of Catherine._

_She had left then, unable to stomach being in her partner’s presence. The next morning, Catherine acted as she always did. Bombastic, irreverent, and loud. But her eyes, telling as they had always been, refused to settle upon the archer. It took weeks before Catherine finally seemed to forget the incident and her demeanor recovered in full. But there would be times when something would pass between them; an intimate knowledge they could not quite escape._

_Shamir knew that nothing would ever come of it. Even when Catherine would playfully flirt and tease, the Dagdan woman did not allow her hopes to rise. The Knight’s heart was unmoved, fixed upon the woman she would give everything to protect. It was only Shamir, silly fool that she was, who dared to think otherwise._

_In her more churlish moments, when she allowed the poison of her envy to take hold, she imagined that Catherine would follow the Archbishop into death if she had the choice of it. It was a terrible thought but one she could not entirely banish._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Shamir woke to the smell of fresh bread. She blinked at the sheets, lifting her head. Her body had rolled in the night, stomach flat upon the bed. Blearily, she searched for her partner. The other woman was not in sight. Frowning, Shamir rose from the covers. Catherine did not often go off on her own. Even less so of late, considering what happened in Charon. Confused and still blinking away the remnants of sleep, the archer departed swiftly from the room.

It did not take long to find the wayward Knight. The woman was chatting amiably with their host by a small breakfast nook. Simultaneously, Catherine shoveled generous chunks of bread within her mouth. Her expression was bright and clear, not a trace of her prior misery to be seen. Shamir observed the two of them as they conversed, eyeing Catherine in particular.

“...wheat is hard to come by up here. So we end up using rye.”

“It’s tasty either way.” Her partner smiled, kicking her heel against the stool she sat on. “Best piece of bread I’ve had in years.”

“That’s your hunger talking,” Sister Bothild remarked dryly. The nun set down a plate with a fresh loaf. Curiously, her fingers trembled in the process. As she rose, her attention was snared by Shamir. “Ah! You’re awake. Come, sit, and eat.”

The Dagdan woman obeyed, if slightly subdued. She glanced at Catherine, hoping to catch her eyes. The Knight stared pointedly at the food in her hands.

“Your friend and I have been discussing the differences between northern and southern cuisine,” Bothild continued. “So many strange names for things... Does the Empire really use sugar in their meats? What an indecent waste.”

“I believe that’s only for certain dishes. Glazed ham and the like.” Shamir blinked at the nun, bemused by the conversation. She tore off a piece of the bread and dropped it on her tongue. It was warm and earthy. Far more palatable than the dry biscuits they usually ate.

“Well, I hope the trend doesn’t catch on.” The nun sniffed. “Glazed meats… what nonsense! The spread of Imperial rule, I can tolerate. But I dearly hope we can protest the spread of their cooking.”

“Cultural diffusion is inevitable. More so when the border has effectively been erased.” Catherine looked up at last. Her smile was tight. “Soon, there will be few who call themselves Faergian. The people will only define themselves as imperial.”

“Could be for the best.” Bothild sighed and folded her arms. “Dividing ourselves into categories only serves to spark conflict. Fόdlan might be more unified now that it knows only one banner.”

“That’s a rather optimistic spin on it.” Shamir quirked a brow. Her partner didn’t seem to agree with the assessment. The fair-haired woman frowned at the table.

“And what of those who reject the banner that flies over them?”

“I’m not one for politics or war.” The nun took Catherine’s empty plate. Her fingers shook again under the strain. “It’s bad luck to speak over such things at breakfast.”

“But–”

Suddenly, the plate dropped from the nun’s hands. It crashed to the ground, splintering into pieces.

“Another one lost...” Bothild sighed, exasperated. She looked at Catherine. “Would you mind fetching me the broom? It’s in the closet at the end of the hall.”

“Of course.” The Knight stood, only wobbling slightly. Then she vanished down the corridor. Shamir rose as well and bent to help the older woman gather the shards.

“Oh, you needn’t do that, dear girl. I can manage.”

“It’s no trouble.” Shamir swiftly gathered the largest shards and swept them into a pile. The smallest quickly followed. She was vaguely aware of the nun’s considering gaze.

“You’re rather deft. It would have taken me several minutes to do the same.” Bothild rose from her crouched position and shook out her robe. “It occurs to me I did not get your name. Your friend, either.”

“...Shay.” The lie tripped off her tongue easily, using a familiar alias from her time in the Knights. “My partner’s name is Cassia.”

“That so?” The nun tilted her head, appearing to think. “And where were you two headed before stumbling upon my chapel?”

“To Sreng.”

The older woman pursed her lips, but she did not seem particularly surprised.

“That’s a strange place to journey to. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Cassia served in the war under King Dimitri,” Shamir explained. She was careful to keep her tone level. “She was gravely injured defending His Majesty. Her leg is mostly healed, but the injury still troubles her. We had heard of a miracle healer located in Sreng.”

“And now you chase that rumor fervently. I think I understand.” The nun’s forest gaze darted to the window. Outside, the rain had lightened to a scattered drizzle. “Sadly, that bridge has been out for a week or so. Lord Gautier’s men have been by to assess the damage, but it’s hard to say when they’ll begin reconstruction.”

“Would they even bother?”

“Oh, most certainly. That pass is the only route to the border forts. I don’t think they would leave the troops there to die of starvation.” Bothild offered a firm bob of her head. “No, they won’t leave it be. Not with winter so near. However, it would likely take them a few weeks before the route would be passable.”

“Weeks...” Shamir’s mind spun, shifting to their lack of coin and means. It’s possible they could find work in the nearby village, but the pay would be low. She could sell what little goods they had left, but how would they survive in the meantime? The situation was far from ideal. Shamir rubbed her brow as a headache loomed. Seeing her conflict, Bothild patted the Dagdan woman’s arm.

“Don’t worry so hard. I’m sure everything will sort itself.” The nun paused, looking up thoughtfully. “Actually, if you plan to wait for the bridge to mend, you could stay here in the meantime.”

“We would hate to infringe upon you.”

“It wouldn't be any trouble. Truthfully, you would be of great help.” Bothild smiled, cottoning on to Shamir’s hesitance. “I assure you the arrangement wouldn’t be one-sided. With the war, our village has been in dire straits. Illness and injury have sadly been common. I do what I can. However, I am but one woman. To have an extra pair of hands would be a great boon.”

“I’m not learned in the healing arts,” Shamir admitted. “I can’t say I would have much potential for it either.”

“You wouldn’t need it. I can provide the magic. But say a man comes in with a boar’s tusk through the gut. It would be hard for me to remove it from him without possibly goring him further.”

The nun raised her hands and splayed her fingers. The digits trembled noticeably.

“Unlike mine, your touch would be steady and certain. Now I highly doubt such an extreme scenario would come to pass, but the concept remains the same.” Bothild folded her arms again. “I provide food and shelter and you assist me in helping the village. Do we have a deal?”

Shamir pondered the offer for a bit. It was not a bad compromise, despite her reservations. The arrangement would only last for a few weeks, regardless. They would still need to find a source of steady income, but for now… The Dagdan woman nodded firmly.

“Alright. I think I can manage that.” A thought occurred to her. “What about my partner? Would she need to help as well?”

The nun opened her mouth, but whatever words she had been prepared to say were lost as a great clamor came from the hall. Shamir turned her head as Catherine stumbled into view. The woman was holding a broom in her hands and, to her great shock, a child in the other. The boy, who couldn’t have been older than ten, laughed as he hung off the Knight’s forearm. At Catherine’s heel, a young girl was wrapped around her good leg.

“Sorry for the wait.” Catherine grinned, looking somewhat abashed. “I tried to run but they were too fast for me.”

“Aife! Connla!” Bothild motioned to the ground, voice stern. “Get off the poor woman. She’s not of a mood to deal with the two of you.”

“I don’t mind it.” The Knight dropped the boy gently. She ruffled his mussed red hair. He stared up at her with a toothy smile before bounding away. The girl, much shier than her counterpart, scurried after him. “They’re orphans, aren’t they?”

“They are,” the nun confirmed. “Father was a soldier who died in the war. Their mother… she was taken by illness. Wasting disease, of all the terrible things.”

Bothild glanced at the Knight speculatively.

“Well, you seem to be good with children. How do you feel about being their caretaker? At least, whenever your friend and I are preoccupied helping the village.”

Catherine blinked at the nun. Shamir bit back a smile, taking a seat at the small table. She ate another piece of the bread, combing it with what appeared to be fresh jam. Bothild gave both of them a look of approval. Then she strode out of the kitchen. Finally, Catherine stirred.

“Why...?” She cut her eyes to Shamir. “What exactly did I miss?”

The Dagdan woman shrugged, refusing to clarify. Instead, she favored her partner with a curt stare.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Catherine wavered momentarily. Then she nodded her head. Yet the motion was stilted, half-hearted at best.

“I did.” The Knight rubbed her neck. Then she busied herself by sweeping the broken pieces. “Shamir, did you happen to hear anything? After you fell asleep.”

Shamir paused, bread stopping just short of her lips. Then she bit it whole, teeth grazing her fingertips.

“No. I didn’t.”

Catherine visibly calmed at those words. Her grin returned, expression clearing just as the storm. Shamir wondered what her partner say if she knew the truth. _You were wrong all those years ago._ She set the knife aside, ignoring the reflection staring accusingly from the metal. _I’m not like Kyphon at all._

**Next Chapter: Striker**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Woof, this took a bit. Sorry folks, I had some IRL stuff that needed tending to but we're back on track. We've also finally hit the point I've wanted to reach from the beginning. How did everyone feel today? Exciting times, no? To all the people who clamored for them to kiss, you got your wish! Sure, it's not in the present time. But then again, you guys never specified when. *smugcatintensifies* Anyway, thank you guys so much for reading and following along. The next updates won't take half as much time, I promise you. I would love to hear any thoughts and predictions~
> 
> Till next time, stay cool! - AdraCat
> 
> Side Note: I will be using Twitter to broadcast my updates as well as my progress. This pertains to my current fics as well as any planned ones in the future. If you would like to keep up, please feel free to follow!: https://twitter.com/AdraCat


	9. Striker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Knight considers her current place and the various people who have shaped her life.  
All the while, she sinks beneath the weight of ennui.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Forgive me for the monthly updates. I'm going to try and pick up the pace from here on out. Much love to my beta johnxfire!

_The journey back to Charon was not the triumphant return Cassandra had expected. She had dreamed of riding proudly to the manor steps, wreathed in royal accolade with a parade of admirers to her back. Her head would be held high, content in the knowledge she had served her country well. Yet these were just the foolish expectations of an idealistic youth. The truth was far more bitter._

_Rather than pride, Cassandra slunk back to the estate in shame. Her men were quiet, solemn in respect to her dark mood. They could sense the black despair that settled over her and kept their distance. One brave man, a weathered veteran who served with her father, dared approach. She skirted his questions, words neutral and tone dour. He did not try again, much to her relief._

_Cassandra did not want to hear whatever pithy assurances he might have made. She knew what had been done could not be retracted. The blood spilt could not be washed clean and the Rhodos would be stained by her deeds long after she had passed. The noblewoman swallowed, the thought bringing with it a leaden knot within her throat._

_Murderer, they would call her._

_She stilled in the saddle, hands twisting around the reins. Her horse grunted once. The sound grounded her and she lifted her eyes to the Charon manor. It loomed in the distance. A mere gallop away and she would be home. Father was surely waiting, ready to hear of her success. For a brief moment, Cassandra allowed herself to think of a world where she had been. Her father’s bearded face would be even, Lord Priam was not a man prone to levity, but his eyes would crinkle just the slightest bit. It was enough for her to know he was pleased; ever proud of the heir he favored. Her stepmother, true to her dislike, would merely bow her head in deference before taking leave for the gardens._

_Alexander would be hovering in the back, of course — face pinched and begrudgingly impressed. The twins, Helen and Aethra, would fling themselves at her feet. Then they would smile brightly in the blissfully ignorant way only small children could. Melaina, ever shy, would not greet her so enthusiastically. But she would seek her out in private, words careful and awe plain. They thought highly of her, all of them. It was not narcissism to think as much. She held the burden and hope of her house; a fact she embraced in full. But this… This was not a small mistake._

_Cassandra clenched her jaw, teeth on edge. Now, it was not admiration and relief she would be met with. Surely, only shock and disdain could remain. If they looked at her as she was, they would see the blood on her hands and the folly writ on her face. Her body, soaked with the shame she bore as a result of her foolish idealism, would betray the truth. Her sword, marked not with the viscera of traitors and heathens, but their own countrymen. A greater treason than even Duscur._

_Could she face them?_

_She bowed her head and wiped her brow. Sweat stained trembling fingers._

_Dare she look into her father’s face?_

_ **How can I?** _

_Fear and grief surged, breaking upon the shores of her mind. Suddenly she was back on that beach, sword and armor gleaming crimson. Decorated with proof of her actions. There was no escaping this. Not when the victim held ties to the crown. Cassandra focused her gaze back on the manor. The Grand Duke would not turn a blind eye to her actions. Perhaps those few who had fled had already imparted the gruesome tale. Rufus Blaiddyd and all of his banners would call for justice. Father would not be able to protect her. If he even wanted to after learning of her foolishness._

_What should she do? What options did she have?_

_Honor would have her face the consequences with dignity. Pride would have her plead innocence. Neither was likely to get her anywhere. Her House was prominent, wealthy and influential in their own right; but the crown demanded her fealty. If nothing else, she owed them an explanation. So was that the course to take? To beg for leniency at the Grand Duke’s heel?_

_Or…was it too late for that? Alexander was a capable and legitimate son of Charon. Crest-blooded just as she. Second-born, but able all the same. Her title of heir was a matter of parental favor. In the eyes of the court and the Church, Alexander was more than adequate as a replacement. In the wake of her dishonor, it was possible they would simply call for her head. Blood for blood. An heir for an heir. The traitorous daughter of House Charon given righteous judgment._

_The thought proved chilling. A cold lance of unease settled beneath her ribs. Death was not a thing to fear. It came for all people, noble and common alike. But her end would be the black stain upon her family’s name. Her name would be a warning for future generations, a worse fate than simply being an inkblot in the margins. No. She needed to think of a way to make this right – to correct this wrong. But…_

_Cassandra tugged hard on the reins, leading her horse in the opposite direction. Then they cantered off, away from the manor and far from the soldiers who served at her command. No one dared follow or question her retreat. Their stares branded her skin, hot and accusing as any molten iron. She could not stand it. Pity or spite; she had no need for either._

_The noble dug her heels into the horse’s flank. Wind lashed her face, stinging her eyes. Cassandra did not have a direction in mind, nor a particular destination. She just needed to run. Away from the prying eyes looking to her for answers. Away from her family that she would soon disappoint. Away from the country she had failed._

_And so she did run, long and hard; fast and seemingly without end until the day gave way to night. Only when dark clouds painted the sky in a quilt of grey did she finally stop. In a local inn she paid for something to fill her belly. Not food, for she did not have the stomach for that, only drink. Each bitter swig was brisk, incongruously sobering. Yet the gnawing ache remained. A growing void had replaced her fear and beside it was the harsh realization of inevitability. Her fate had already been forged from the moment her sword pierced Lugh’s chest, hadn’t it?_

_There was nothing she could do to sway the Grand Duke’s mind. The man had likely already heard each terrible detail from the lips of Moreau's soldiers. She could not turn back. Home would grant her little reprieve. For now, she needed to hide and hope the Duke’s anger would cool. But where could a noble on the run possibly flee? To whom could she seek sanctuary?_

_These nagging questions stayed with her for days. Time bled, melding together with each frantic turning of thought. Cassandra found herself wandering, from village to village, across the plains and into the hillside of Magdred. Soon her coin ran dry and her stomach ached to match the pain in her chest. She ignored it for a time, but hunger sapped her strength. Truthfully, she knew it was futile to carry on like this. Dying of starvation or at the hand of a lucky bandit’s sword would be just as ignoble a death as an execution. With her resources exhausted, it was only prudent to slink back to Charon. Yet despite this, she refused to admit defeat._

_**Just a bit more**, Cassandra thought to herself. **Goddess, give me a bit more time to think of a solution.** A voice, one she recognized as her father’s, whispered to her in the midnight hours._

_**Turn back**, it seemed to say, **face your deeds with pride, not shame.**_

_** But how can I?** She covered her ears and buried her face in a second-hand blanket she pilfered from a stall. She had fallen far, she knew, to resort to petty thievery. Yet her coin was dry and the nights were cold. As with everything else, Cassandra did not have the luxury of choice. **I cannot face them. I cannot explain why. They’ll only see the blood I spilled and not the reason behind it**._

_Eventually, the voice ceased its insidious murmurs. But the words never failed to linger. They scratched at her, sharp like a nail underfoot. It tested her resolve, shattering any chance at lucid thought. It had been weeks now and she was no closer to a suitable answer than before. Useless. Desperate and weak from neglecting her body, Cassandra found herself traveling the mountainous path that led into the Ohgma._

_There was only one place that could provide shelter for her now. Garreg Mach, the seat of the Archbishop. Of anyone, surely the benevolent Lady Rhea could provide sanctuary for one such as her; just enough for her to clear her head and gather her thoughts. Then, perhaps she could finally think of a plan._

_Finally, after hours of a perilous trek, she made it to the towering gates of the monastery. The gatekeepers halted her as she approached._

_“You there! State your business quickly.” One of the guards stepped forward, hand clasped upon his sword. Another leered at her frame, lips turned down. Neither seemed particularly impressed and Cassandra did not blame them. The past few weeks had taken their toll on her appearance._

_“I seek an audience with Her Grace, the Archbishop.” Her voice came out more a croak than anything. She winced and cleared her throat. “Please, allow me to see her.”_

_“For what purpose?” The guard scoffed incredulously. “The Archbishop does not have time to spare for the likes of you. Turn back, knave. You aren’t wanted here.”_

_“You don’t understand,” Cassandra insisted. Her tone darkened with impatience. “Her Grace would be most displeased should she discover you turned me away.”_

_“And who are you to make that claim?”_

_The young woman straightened in the saddle. She pushed aside the folds of her cloak and gestured to the relic at her hip._

_“Cassandra of House Charon. Heir apparent of Lord Priam and wielder of Thunderbrand.”_

_“The one who’s been missing?” The guard’s brows arched beneath his fringe. “A likely story. If you think you can impersonate a noble–”_

_“Hold.” The second man broke his silence. His eyes darted to the relic. “I’ve seen Lord Priam carry that blade around. The profile is unmistakable.”_

_“Could it be a forgery? They have those, you know.”_

_Exhausted and irritated, Cassandra drew the sword in question. It burst into a brilliant haze of crimson. Both men flinched back and fell to their knees._

_“Stand aside.” She held the blade firm, unwilling to betray the weakness she felt. Her arm ached with the effort. “And inform the Archbishop of my arrival. I would have words with her.”_

_Without a moment’s hesitation, the gate rose in a groaning creak of iron. Then, she was ushered into the monastery grounds. But her task was not yet accomplished and the reception she would receive was still unknown. From the guard’s words, it was clear her disappearance had been noticed. Whether it was her Father spurring such news or a more hostile party, Cassandra could not say. As to how the Archbishop would take her arrival... that had yet to be decided._

_Within a scant period of time, she was brought forth to the Archbishop’s audience chamber. Cassandra waited idly, heart pounding and palms damp. The Church was a neutral entity, but their ties to the Crown were undeniable. Would they treat her as an enemy to curry the Grand Duke’s favor? Would they slap her in irons without hesitation? Her answer came in the scowling form of Seteth. The man strode into the room, annoyance dripping from each step._

_“Brandishing a relic towards the guards? Demanding an audience with the Archbishop? I would have thought the future Lord of Charon to have a bit more decorum.” The man halted in front of her, arms clasped. Sharp green eyes glowered with palpable distaste. “It seemed you’ve lost what little sense you had earned at the academy. Has the time away from here rotted your wits?”_

_“I meant no harm.” Cassandra bowed her head respectfully. “But they refused me entry. I saw no other way—"_

_“So you threaten your way inside?”_

_She flinched, chagrined._

_“I hardly threatened–”_

_“Enough. I would not hear your excuses.” Seteth rubbed his brow, exhaling long and slow. “Showing up here unannounced is one thing, but if we take your sudden disappearance into account it becomes an entirely different matter. Your Father has the whole of Fόdlan looking for you. And with Duke Blaiddyd’s accusations… You do realize the situation you’ve placed us in?”_

_**Accusations?** Cassandra flushed with shame. She averted her eyes to the tiled floor._

_“Then everyone knows what happened on the Rhodos.” Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, awkward and weighty. “I assume the Church will want answers. Am I to be placed under arrest?”_

_“That isn’t for me to decide.” The man frowned deeply. The severity in his tone softened just the slightest bit. “Had you been of lesser birth the matter would already be settled. The murder of a noble is a grave offense. However, your House and position as Heir deserve further consideration. But the Crown is not happy with what took place. They’ve already reached out to the Knights of Seiros to assist in your detainment.”_

_“Yet you’re not moving to seize me?” Cassandra shifted on her heels, eyeing the church soldiers waiting by the door. They were not primed to attack by the looks of it. Their weapons remained sheathed and their posture indicated nothing in the way of aggression. Seteth pursed his lips._

_“As I stated previously, that is not my decision.” He fussed with his robes, unable to conceal his agitation. “Truthfully, I was prepared to hand you in to the Crown and be done with it. But Lady Rhea, be it a matter of mercy or madness, has deigned to humor you. You’d best keep that in mind.”_

_“Seteth.” A new voice broke the tension. It was lilting and calm in its familiarity; a great contrast to the strained patience of the man before her. Cassandra peered past him. Her gaze fell upon the willowy form of Archbishop Rhea. The woman’s expression was placid, lips curved into an ever-present smile. “I hope you are not badgering our guest. The poor girl looks ready to collapse as is.”_

_Immediately, Cassandra knelt in supplication._

_“Your Grace, forgive my boldness. I never meant to bring strife to your door.”_

_“I’ve felt no such thing, I assure you.” The Lady walked closer, stride measured. Her tone was just as careful. “Rise, Cassandra. We are not strangers, you and I. Was it not just a number of years prior that you attended this academy?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Then stand and greet me properly.”_

_Cassandra obeyed, though not without a great deal of reticence. She avoided staring directly into the other woman’s eyes. The noble could not face the frank sincerity seen there. It reminded her too similarly of the Goddess’ omniscient sight. She placed a hand over her heart and bowed. Eventually, Lady Rhea hummed in acknowledgment._

_“There you are now. You’ve changed a bit since I saw you last, but you are every inch Priam’s daughter.”_

_Cassandra winced discreetly at the mention, but she did not turn away. Then, the Archbishop drew near._

_“Seteth, take the guards and leave us.”_

_“Beg pardon.” The man visibly balked at the command. “Rhea, surely you can’t be serious? The woman might be a former student, but she is also a wanted fugitive. I can’t leave you alone—”_

_“Seteth.”_

_He quieted, chastened by the Lady’s sharp utterance. Seteth’s face curdled with displeasure, yet he stalked towards the doors all the same. He motioned the guards outside the room and followed, though his cutting glare was not missed. The man did not trust her, a fact Cassandra wasn’t sure to be offended by or to applaud him for. In all honesty, she was not sure she could trust her own behavior of late._

_“You look thin.” The Archbishop mused. “I take it you’ve been neglecting your needs.”_

_Cassandra blinked, startled by the frank statement. She swallowed thickly._

_“I haven’t had much of an appetite. Not since…” Her words trailed, caught on memories she could not shake. “With respect Lady Rhea, I am surprised you’re allowing me to stand before you. From what Seteth told me, you’re well aware of what happened.”_

_“I know the account Duke Blaiddyd was given. However, there are two sides to every tale.” The Lady placed a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. It was a light touch, gentle in a way the noble was unaccustomed to. “I would have you tell me your version. Tell me, what caused you to turn your blade at Moreau and his men?”_

_“It was not a purposeful act, nor was it premeditated.” Cassandra closed her eyes, thinking of that ill-fated battle. “We had found a group of Duscur natives. Lugh… Lord Moreau wanted them slaughtered. But I could not allow it in good conscience.”_

_“And why was that?”_

_“They were harmless. Women and children with a lone old man at the head. There weren’t combatants nor did they carry arms.” Cassandra shook her head before she met the Archbishop’s prying stare. “I know the Crown’s orders demanded action but they couldn’t have possibly been involved with the massacre. It wasn’t just to kill them so I shielded them from Lugh’s advance. I thought the man would see reason and retreat, but I was wrong.”_

_“And so Lord Moreau accepted your challenge, culminating into the situation we have now.” The older woman’s expression darkened with melancholy. “An ill turn of fate for two prominent Houses. Such a shame it’s come to this.”_

_The Archbishop fell silent for a time. She appeared to think, the long fall of her hair shielding her face. Then, suddenly she moved to stand by the doors._

_“I think I have the measure of what happened now. Thank you, Cassandra. For the time being, I will allow you to stay within the halls of Garreg Mach. But should Duke Blaiddyd march on the gates, I cannot guarantee the protection of my Knights. Do you understand?”_

_“I do, Your Grace.”_

_The Archbishop opened the doors, but as the light caught the glittering planes of her headdress Cassandra found herself speaking once again._

_“Lady Rhea.”_

_The woman paused, head tilted. Hands balled and heart twisting, the noble steeled herself._

_“Do you think I was in the wrong? Or did I do the right thing?”_

_There was a long pause as the Archbishop seemed to consider the question. Then she smiled, sad and apologetic._

_“Such judgment is beyond my ken. Only the Goddess can weigh our deeds. Pray to Her, Cassandra. Perhaps She will grant you the absolution you seek.”_

_It was not quite the answer she looking for, but it was... something. Cassandra clung to those words and the possibility that forgiveness was not beyond her reach. She just needed to have faith and pray. So she did, day and night, hoping for the solution she could not find herself._

  
  


* * *

  
  


The village of Culann was not particularly large or distinctive. It was nestled in the forest beneath the shadow of Sreng’s Maw. The town center was far from the cluttered affair of Toraigh, where merchants hawked their wares with fervor amid sailors and mercenaries. Culann was sedate by contrast, a languid settlement populated by languid people. It only took a few days for that realization to dawn. None seemed to be interested in the strange travelers who sought refuge in the Church’s walls. At least, not blatantly. Most of the people were content to leave them be, though whether that was due to the machinations of Sister Bothild was unknown.

A few dared stare them down, intrigued. But it was a fleeting curiosity and usually dissipated soon after. Perhaps they could sense the ephemeral nature of their stay. Or, just as simply, they knew better than to ask cumbersome questions. Whatever the truth, Catherine was grateful for it. She hardly wanted prying eyes upon her person. For Shamir’s sake, if nothing else. The woman did not need further burdens piled atop her back.

Catherine watched from the shaded porch of the church as two children played by the well. She smiled thinly as the boy, Connla as she had come to know him, attempted to goad his sister in a sword fight. To hail the blunted twig he held as a sword was generous but he waved it with fierce bravado that could not be denied. His sister, Aife, was a timid thing of few words. She shied away from her brother with a frown, eyes darting towards Catherine. The girl’s eyes begged for assistance. Taking pity upon her, the Knight called out to the rowdy boy.

“Stay your hand, Sir Connla. Don’t you know it’s dishonorable to point your blade at a Lady?”

He huffed, playful expression dipping. Then he lowered the stick reluctantly.

“Aife’s no lady. She’s a bandit and I need to gut her good and proper.”

Said ‘bandit’ paled to the color of fresh parchment. Her cheeks were bloodless as she swiveled her head to stare gamely at her impromptu sitter. Catherine chuckled before rising to her feet. Her emaciated calf throbbed with the effort, but she ignored it. She refused to show such weakness, least of all among children.

“Bandit, eh? I’ve never seen a bandit dressed in skirts and clinging to a doll.” She picked up a twig of similar size to the boy’s. Then she twirled it with an exaggerated flourish. “Should you have need of an adversary, face me. I would be a greater foe than a girl two years your junior.”

“That’s not fair, Cassia. You’re a real soldier.” Connla puffed his cheeks in a pronounced pout. He did not seem to notice Catherine’s telling grimace. Her affected identity was too close to her former name for comfort. “I would be knocked flat! At least Aife doesn’t put up a fight.”

“But that’s precisely why you should seek opponents greater than yourself. How else are you going to improve?” She wandered near and tapped his shoulder with the twig’s stubby end. “Tell you what, leave your sister be and I’ll show you some real sword-work. Would you like that?”

Connla’s face brightened, eyes widening with anticipation. He darted a few paces away, seemingly looking for a bigger piece of wood to serve as his practice blade. She smiled at him wryly and was reminded of her own rambunctious youth. A light tug on her pant-leg garnered her attention. Catherine looked down and caught Aife’s shy glance.

“Thank you.” The girl spoke slowly. Her manner was jarringly reminiscent of another girl she had known. Melaina, once upon a time. The memory rankled and she strained not to let that show on her face. Catherine merely tipped her head in acknowledgment. Aife, taking advantage of her brother’s distraction, slunk back within the church. The Knight’s stare trailed after her grimly. Ghosts of what was. That’s all they were. Yet…

She blinked as Connla emitted a sharp cry of triumph.

“Cassia, look!” The boy jabbed a toothed branch towards the heavens. The limb’s profile looked eerily reminiscent of a certain relic. “Ho, fiend! I, Thunder Connla, will slay you where you stand!”

“Ha…” Catherine humored him with a low laugh. “Now you’re a Knight of Seiros, are you?”

“Not just _any_ Knight.” He sniffed with feigned arrogance. “The toughest! Faster than lightning and with a sword that can cleave a boulder in half.”

“That’s quite the claim.” Catherine’s mouth twitched, wanting to break into a wry smile. She had faced adulation in her time. Despite the circumstances of her knighting, the reputation she held had long since surpassed the disgrace that marked her. Ser Catherine was a name for a vaunted hero of Fόdlan. But with the aftermath of the war, who knew how long that honor would keep.

“I wish I could have seen her. Just once.” Connla’s features twisted with disappointment. “Bothild told me she was defeated in Fhirdiad. And crossed blades with the Emperor too! That must have been a _real_ fight to see.”

“War isn’t a sport. It’s a terrible, bloody thing.” Catherine took a seat by the well. A hand drifted down her savaged calf, fingertips tracing the curved scars. “And a happy ending can’t be guaranteed. Not for everyone.”

“I know.” The boy’s voice lowered, turning oddly somber. He sat next to her and thumbed his nose. “...My Pa was a soldier.”

“Was he?” Catherine asked gently. Connla only shrugged before kicking his heels against the well-stones.

“He went off to serve when the war started. In the beginning, he sent letters to me and Aife. Short things. Stupid stuff. Nothing interesting, really.” His hazel eyes lowered. “Then they stopped coming at all. Mother told us he’d respond soon. But he never did.”

“That must have been hard.”

Connla shrugged again, red curls covering his face.

“I guess so. Sister Bothild says there’s a greater place for people who die fighting for their country. I’d like to think that’s true.”

“I’m sure the King was grateful for his sacrifice.” Catherine offered the boy a reassuring nod, but it soon faded as Connla sent her a befuddled glance.

“My Pa didn’t serve the King. He fought underneath Lord Gautier’s banner.” He raised his chin, prideful. “After the fighting ended, the Lord even came and gave me Pa’s shield. Said he died a hero.”

“That so?” Catherine looked away, lips pinched tight. “I suppose even the greatest of fools have to grow up sometime.”

“Huh?”

“It’s nothing.” She waved her hand airily. “Your father was a brave man, nonetheless. It takes great strength to take up arms.”

“Mother wasn’t too happy with him. She was sad when he left. We all were.” Connla traced his makeshift weapon through the dirt. He sniffed and wiped his cheeks with a sleeve. “You fought in the King’s army, didn’t you? Alongside His Majesty?”

“And who told you that?”

“Bothild mentioned it.” His eyes flicked away nervously, suddenly. “I… I wanted to know what happened to your leg. Lady Shay told her you were injured in the war. Is it true you got hurt defending King Dimitri?”

“I was defending my liege,” Catherine hedged. She avoided the boy’s earnest stare. “Sadly, it was not enough. I failed and it cost me greatly.”

“But you lived. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“That’s a matter of perspective.” Catherine sighed and pushed away from the well’s edge. “It doesn’t matter now. The war’s over and the person I swore to protect is long dead.”

She turned her eyes to the sky. The sun had just begun its languorous decline behind the trees. Swathes of red and orange carved a blooded path through the clouds.

“Come. The good Sister will be rather cross with me if she finds you filthy and covered in sweat.”

“I’m not filthy,” Connla grumbled. However, he gave no further fuss and obediently strode towards the church doors. Catherine saw him pause by the threshold, glancing back at her. She ignored the cursory look, eyes settled on the tapestry of colors painted across the sky. Red as blood and fire. The flutter of a cloak she could not escape. The burning heat of a city turned to ash. She gnashed her teeth, refusing to reveal how the sight unsettled her heart.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Shamir and Bothild returned with the burgeoning moon. An icy rain had started to fall, drenching both of them up to their cloaked shoulders. Upon entering, the nun was immediately beset by a flurry of excitable limbs, courtesy of Connla. He tugged the woman in the direction of the kitchen, talking up a storm to match the one to their backs. Aife skittered after and nearly tripped on her skirt. Catherine watched them depart before focusing her gaze on Shamir.

Her partner looked no worse for wear, if considerably damp. The woman was hanging her coat by the door. An irritated scowl stained her mouth, but that wasn’t a surprise. Shamir hated the weather of Faerghus more than anything; a feeling that only seemed to grow with each day that passed in the frigid north. Catherine approached with a smile.

“How was it? Anything exciting happen?”

The archer stilled in the midst of combing her hair, fingers hesitating. Violet eyes passed vaguely in Catherine’s direction.

“...It was uneventful. The same as yesterday.” Shamir turned to face the Knight. Despite herself, Catherine sent an appreciative glance down her partner’s form. The woman had taken to wearing borrowed robes when acting as Bothild’s assistant. They were plain and hardly a scandalous affair, but the rain had soaked the fabric to the skin. With the damp sheen of her hair, Shamir appeared… Soft? Pretty? Were those the words that came to mind? Somehow, the description wasn't enough. The Knight’s voice caught in her throat as she puzzled over her conflicted thoughts.

The Dagdan woman had always been beautiful; Catherine was not such a stubborn louse that she couldn’t admit such a simple fact. The attraction that observation ignited was not a stranger to her either. Years of serving by Shamir’s side had sharpened the edge of yearning, not dulled it. It was an ache the Knight had learned to live with. So why was it throwing her so completely now? Abruptly, Shamir’s gaze narrowed.

“What?”

Catherine blinked before clearing her throat.

“Just surprised you’re humoring this whole healer thing. It’s not exactly a profession I thought you would ever take to.”

“Because of my lack of faith or compassion?” The Dagdan woman glared, the sight shifting from sensual to comical as she plucked at her soaked robe. She wrinkled her nose.

“I didn’t mean to imply...” Catherine trailed off sheepishly.

“I know what you meant.” A pale hand swept down Shamir’s torso. “I never thought to don the robes of a healer; that much is true. It didn’t feel necessary. The mercenary bands I traveled with never lacked for one and the Knights hardly needed me to learn. So why bother?”

“Well, I can’t say I disapprove of this outcome. Goddess knows we could have used a healer’s touch the past few months.” Catherine scratched her neck, musing faintly on the hectic events they suffered. “Who knows? Once we’re in Sreng, I’m sure your newfound skills will come in handy.”

“We’ll see,” The archer uttered blandly. She made a faint noise of discomfort. “I’m going to get changed. I’ve had quite enough of being cold and wet for a lifetime.”

“Just be glad the snow hasn’t arrived yet. Though, knowing our luck, I’m sure it’s coming.” Catherine’s smile fell. She watched her partner leave without a backward glance, the woman seeming to dismiss her entirely. The past few days had seen similar instances. One moment, Shamir would act as she always did — calm and wry as per her sardonic nature. Then her attitude would flip into distant stoicism.

Shamir’s attitude didn’t seem to change so harshly when in the company of the others. Catherine didn’t want to think of it as a pattern, especially when it only seemed to be concerning her. Perhaps it was just the mounting stress of their situation. Deciding not to think on it further, she sighed and limped to the kitchen.

Evening meals were prepared quickly within the church. Bothild, as it turned out, was rather stubborn. The woman refused any sort of help when it came to cooking, preferring to shoo away any stray hands. Of course, in the children’s case, it was more to keep them from stealing any extra bites. Catherine had made the spectacular mistake of trying to assist the older woman once, only to be swatted by a ladle for the effort.

_“Have you any talent for cooking? I think not, considering the sorry state you arrived in. Skin and bones both of you. Shameful.”_

Catherine couldn’t deny the accusation. So she had let the matter rest, even if it did hurt her pride to be rejected so soundly. Truthfully, she would have been grateful for the task. Or any sort of responsibility, in truth. Watching two small children run around all day was not her idea of honest work. Surely, there had to be some menial chores she could accomplish? Better than wasting away in restless malaise.

The thought needled, pricking at scars she did not wish agitated. But it nagged, as these things often do, and she barely registered as the others filtered into the kitchen. Soon, the smell of roasted game and bread filled the air and she stirred from her thoughts. The children, cheeks ruddy and hair clean from bathing, were already digging into their portions heartily. Connla, showing his eagerness, lapped at his plate like a starving hound. Aife ate far slower than her messy brother, but no less enthusiastically.

“Settled down before you choke, the both of you,” Sister Bothild grumbled in exasperation. She set Catherine’s portion in front of the Knight, eyes not daring to waver from her wards. “You act as if I never feed you. Goodness...”

“Kids will be kids. They can’t help that.” Catherine grabbed her fork with a chuckle. “Hell, I think I was worse at their age. Most days I couldn’t be bothered to stop fighting with my brother to eat. And when I did, I always took the opportunity to harass him further.”

“So you were always a fighter, eh? I suppose it’s ingrained somewhere.” Bothild ambled back to the stove, preparing another plate. “I should be grateful they don’t scrap that often. Even Connla knows better than to bully his sister. Don’t you, boy?”

Catherine smirked as the lad’s fork froze, pausing just before it touched his lips. He eyed the Knight nervously. She shrugged and arched her brow pointedly.

“I’m sure he knows, and if he doesn’t I’ll be there to set him straight.”

Connla looked abashed at this, mouth twisting mulishly. Aife, by stark comparison, looked well-chuffed with the declaration. She stared at Catherine with palpable relief. She wondered if Alexander ever offered similar looks to the various nannies who watched over them. Knowing him, the obstinate churl, he was likely far too proud. One of the rare traits they ever shared as siblings.

Catherine drew up short, stunned by the direction her mind had taken her to. How long had it been since she had earnestly pondered her childhood? Charon had brought it out of her by the sheer familiarity of the surrounding land. But here, in a little secluded village with no ties to speak of? She frowned at her food, confused and more than a bit off-filter. The ennui had taken its toll indeed if her mind was so easily flung back to the past.

“Is something wrong with the food? You’ve barely touched it.”

Catherine jerked her head up, meeting Bothild’s concerned look. She shook her head in denial and swiftly downed a chunk of meat. Pork by the taste of it.

“No, it’s perfect. I just got lost in my head there. No need to worry.” She swallowed around another bite, forcing a grin. “Heh, you know it’s been a while since I’ve had a steady hot meal. Sham… Shay does most of the cooking but game has been sparse. She also doesn’t seem to know the merit of seasoning.”

“Should I leave you to starve next time? Since my cooking is so unpalatable.” As if summoned by the slight, Shamir wandered into the room. She glared daggers at her partner, but Catherine was unrepentant.

“I’m only being honest with our host. Shouldn’t I compliment the chef?”

“Not at the expense of the other woman who cooks your meals.” The Dagdan woman rolled her eyes. “Had I known you were so ungrateful, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

Catherine winced, hearing a tinge of genuine affront within her partner’s tone. Knowing she had perhaps gone too far, the Knight reached for Shamir’s wrist. The other woman avoided the touch smoothly, choosing to sit two seats away. Catherine’s hand fell to the table.

“Now ladies, no bickering during dinner. If the children can’t fight neither can you.” Bothild handed Shamir a plate before finally taking her own seat. “Ah! There’s nothing better than resting after a long day. Don’t you two agree?”

“I don’t know. I could stand to run around the village myself.” The Knight leaned back in her chair, still measuring Shamir’s expression. “Sounds kinda nice. Well, aside from tending to sick farmers and all that.”

“Less sick and more injured, nowadays.” Bothild gnawed on a bit of bread thoughtfully. “Too many good men were called away. Those that returned… I’m sure you can imagine the ails they suffered.”

The older woman paused as the children traded an anxious glance.

“Ah, but let’s try to forget this dour talk. That’s no way to spend a meal. Eat up everyone, lest the cold air steals all the heat away.”

They slipped into a companionable silence, the only noise being furtive chewing and the clank of wooden utensils. Catherine laughed under her breath as Bothild scolded Connla more than once. Apparently, the boy didn’t know the difference between his shirt and a napkin. Occasionally, they lapsed into small bits of conversation. Most of it was innocuous, touching on the ever-souring weather and the chill that had swept through the forest. It was heading down from the canyon, or so the nun insisted.

According to her, Sreng was an inhospitable tundra covered in ice and the fierce northern frost was birthed from the Maw itself. Catherine wasn’t certain how much of that could be true considering the varying accounts she had heard. Some had even described the land as a cold desert, too barren for even water to collect or freeze. She would see the truth for herself in time. At least, when that damnable bridge was finally fixed.

Catherine stole a glance in Shamir’s direction. The archer had been disconcertingly quiet; more so than she usually was. She ate mechanically, movements effortless and crisp. Her expression was infuriatingly unreadable. The Knight wanted to pry past her carefully constructed veneer, and dig into the thoughts she knew were just lying below the surface. If she knew anything about the other woman, it was that her mind was constantly working. Shamir was never truly at ease even in moments of placidity. There was something unbearably sad about that notion.

“I think it’s time for a certain pair of ragamuffins to sleep,” Bothild spoke fondly, gesturing towards the children. Catherine followed her line of sight, settling on the drowsy pair in question. They were rubbing their eyes erratically, Connla yawning wide in particular. “I’ll leave you two to square up the dishes while I put them to bed.”

“I think we can handle that.”

“Good.” The nun bobbed her head firmly. She led the children away, but not before glancing curtly towards the two women. “You should try to get some sleep as well. From the looks of it, this weather isn’t likely to clear out by morning. You best enjoy the calm while you can.”

“Thank you, Bothild.” Shamir wiped her mouth primly. Catherine jolted, somewhat startled by the words. It was the first thing the woman had said since dinner began. Violet eyes strayed over Catherine’s head to meet the nun’s. “We appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”

“No need for that now. You’ve both helped me just as plenty.” The nun waved her hand dismissively before shooing the tired children past. In a blink, they disappeared into the shadows. Catherine shot her partner another glance, but Shamir refused to return it. A heavy feeling eclipsed the atmosphere, strained as a noose pull. Unwilling to let the awkward tension settle, the Knight forced a chuckle.

“You two seem to get on well. Who knew healing people could be a bonding experience?”

Shamir didn’t seem to find amusement in the jibe. The Dagdan woman’s features shifted, lip curling over her teeth in vague distaste.

“She’s a hard-working woman. I admire her fortitude, even as I question the wisdom in living here.” Shamir folded her napkin neatly across the table. “I wasn’t being forthright before. Truthfully, Culann is in dire straits; more than we could have predicted.”

“What do you mean? Is there a plague about?”

“Nothing so drastic.” Violet eyes dimmed, lidded beneath raven lashes. “It’s a simple numbers game. Too many able-bodied men went to war. Too few returned. Connla and Aife’s father was just one of several casualties.”

“Surely some returned?” Catherine pressed. Her brow furrowed as Shamir canted her head.

“Some, but most returned in pieces rather than whole. As it is, there are not enough hands to keep this community thriving.”

“That’s...” The Knight paused, unsure of how to vocalize her feelings. Eventually, she sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I guess I’m not really surprised. The war may be over officially, but there’s plenty of mopping up to do. Culann wouldn’t be the first village to fade into obscurity. Still, do you think there’s anything we can do?”

“Like what? Rob the nearest nobleman and hand out his riches?” Shamir scoffed irreverently. “I imagine the villagers will move elsewhere. Maybe towards the ports or the Imperial border. For their sake, I hope it’s somewhere warm.”

“That’s all you have to say? I thought you’d think kinder of the people providing us shelter.”

“My gratitude has little bearing on reality, Catherine. These people need help we cannot provide. Not as we are and not as we continue to be.” Shamir crossed her arms, a motion the Knight recognized as a defensive tell. For all of her secrecy and subversion, the Dagdan was not as mysterious as she feigned. One need only look close to see the frayed threads of her composure. And, like the opportunist she was bred to be, Catherine latched onto this weakness gladly.

“And what does reality mean for us, Shamir? Waiting fruitlessly for House Gautier to repair a bridge? Wasting away our days playing nanny and apothecary?” Catherine heard her voice rise with her flaring ire. She struck the table with her fist, rattling the wood. “We could do more than that. **I **could do more.”

“Calm down.” Shamir raised her chin, eyes sharpening upon the other woman. “I’ll not have you getting us tossed into the rain because you couldn’t control your temper.”

“I—” Catherine shut her jaw with a clack, tongue retreating behind gnashed teeth. She took a deep breath and held it. “You’re right. I forgot myself. I shouldn’t let myself succumb to frustration.”

_Least of all with you._ Catherine swallowed hard, hoping her partner could not read her face. Thankfully, the Dagdan woman didn’t appear to notice.

“You’re lucky our host didn’t hear that.” Shamir’s posture slackened, alert stance gentling. A faint sigh whispered from her lips. “I don’t think she’d enjoy hearing you spitefully decry the task she gave. Bothild cares for those children greatly.”

“I’m aware, thank you.” Catherine rubbed her brow. All of her previous anger leeched away, replaced with chagrin. “I don’t hate the responsibility. And the kids are nice. They’re well-behaved brats, for the most part.”

“Is that fondness I hear, Catherine?”

“Heh, it’s been known to happen.” The Knight rolled her shoulders limply. “Like I said, I don’t hate it. But at the same time, I can’t help but feel the need to do _more_.”

“Such as?”

“Hell if I know. Just something.” Catherine sent her partner a hesitant glance. Blessedly, Shamir did not shy away. Their eyes met for a breathless moment. Silently, the taller woman took in the pale planes of her partner's features. It was soothing to see the same familiar face she had known for years. Still present and real. Still by her side as promised even after all these months of uncertainty. “It’s strange to me. All this aimless wandering without a clear goal or destination… I can’t fathom it. I never dreamed things would turn out this way.”

“Nothing lasts forever, Catherine.”

“A thousand years might as well be, for as short as our lives are.” The Knight blinked up at the ceiling. The sound of rain droned rhythmically across the roof, echoing in her ears. “That’s how long the Church stood. Yet in a single night, it was all razed to the ground.” Catherine fell silent for a time. Then, she snorted under her breath.

“It’s almost funny to think about how much has changed. A handful of months ago we’d be dining large in the banquet hall, kicking our heels on Blaiddyd splendor.”

“I fail to see the humor in that,” Shamir remarked bluntly. “We were imposing upon the crown from the onset. Even those who looked kindly upon the Knights had grown weary of us.”

“Maybe, but it wasn’t all bad. At least then there was something to work towards. A goal we could reach.” Catherine exhaled heavily, rubbing her neck. “We had order. Structure. A place to belong. What’s left now?”

“Plenty.”

The Knight blinked at her partner’s curt response. The other woman sounded incensed, agitated far beyond her customary annoyance.

“We’re alive and far beyond the Empire’s reach. In spite of the ‘purpose’ we were given.” Shamir’s eyes flashed with something indecipherable. “That’s well worth losing a little _structure_.”

“That isn’t what I meant. I just...” Catherine fumbled over her explanation, mouth suddenly dry. “I miss the feeling of certainty. Of knowing where I would rest my head in the night and where I would point my sword. That’s all.”

“Those are things you can decide for yourself, Catherine. You don’t need the guidance of others to have that.” Shamir stood from her seat, movements stiff with her remaining ire. Her expression flattened, returning to practiced apathy. “I’ll clean up here. You should head off to bed.”

“I could help you—”

“I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

Catherine flinched, stung by the rejection. She felt a knot form in her throat. Shamir turned away from her, gathering the dishes in her hand. The Knight watched her in silence, wanting to reach out but unsure of how. It should have been the easiest thing in the world, considering their partnership. Suddenly, Catherine opened her mouth and felt the words spill from her.

“Earlier… I never meant to mock your cooking. That was callous of me.” She stepped cautiously forward, hand outstretched. Fingertips grazed the edge of Shamir’s shoulder. “I always appreciated the effort. And I appreciate _you_ most of all.”

Shamir was quiet in the wake of Catherine’s confession. Then, in a near inaudible exhale, the Dagdan woman spoke.

“I know, Catherine. I know.”

She moved away from the Knight’s touch, busying herself with the scouring brush. It was clear the words were a dismissal, a deeper cut than any amount of anger. Catherine stared at her, confused but mostly pained. Eventually, she forced herself to retreat back to their quarters. That night she stayed awake, hoping to hear the telltale sound of the door latch slipping free and the patter of footsteps.

Yet it never came. The room remained cold and still, housing only the bitter tang of disappointment.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Did you sleep well?”

Catherine jerked her head up, hands slipping free of the washer rack. The shirt she had been cleaning fell into the tub.

“I slept fine.” She wrung out her wrinkled hands, flexing each knuckle. Her gaze remained on the murky mixture of water and soap. In the corner of her eye, she watched Bothild bob her head.

“Then the storm didn’t keep you up. Always a mercy to sleep through the crack of thunder.” The nun clicked her tongue as she smoothed out a pair of trousers. “Thank you for the help, dear. This would have taken me all day otherwise. Connla, Goddess bless him, seems to make it his mission to find every muddy puddle.”

“It’s no trouble. I wasn’t doing much anyway.” Catherine wiped at her brow. She squinted at the grime that slicked the palm. She had never done any scullery work. No reason to, considering her upbringing. But it was nice, she found, to contribute something of worth. Even if the work was far from glamorous. “Say, where are the kids anyway? Are they still asleep? I haven’t heard them.”

“They wake with the crows. Never a day’s rest for those two.” Bothild snorted good-naturedly. “Aife’s most likely hiding away in her room. Dreary days like these, she knows better than to stumble across her rowdy brother. Poor girl would get dragged across the village on some misadventure of another.”

“Has she always been…?”

“Reserved? Timid as a mouse?” The nun’s sturdy frame shook with a heavy sigh. “I can’t say for certain. I haven’t lived here long, myself. Before I took them in, they were both withdrawn. Connla opened up in time, but Aife… Well, I figure she just needs more time to adjust. Losing both parents is a weight no child should have to bear.”

Bothild glanced up the clouds. The sky was a smoky palette of grey, only the barest sliver of light could be gleaned. The weather had yet to grant them respite.

“We should finish up soon. Another foul push from the heavens is sure to steal upon us.”

“That might be my fault,” Catherine mused. She stood, stubbornly ignoring the ache in her leg. Sitting cross-legged for hours might not have been the wisest decision. “I’m a bit of a bad luck charm. Terrible weather follows me everywhere. Just ask my partner and she’ll vouch for that.”

“I’m sure she would vouch for a great many things when it comes to you.” The nun’s face creased with thought. “You’re lucky to have such steadfast support. Devotion like that is rare indeed.”

“I wouldn’t call her ‘devoted’.” Catherine avoided the older woman’s eyes, grimacing. She ran a distracted hand through her hair. “We’ve been through a great deal together. In the war, we relied on each other. Partners. It’s only natural that feeling persists.”

“Even if the cause that bound you together no longer exists?”

“It’s not—” The Knight stopped herself, teeth glancing the edge of her tongue. She huffed in annoyance. “Look, our relationship is complicated. We care for each other and that’s enough for me. Anything else is immaterial.”

“As you say.” Bothild offered her a skeptical look. It was clear the woman didn’t believe the explanation, but Catherine didn’t want the subject to linger. Her and Shamir’s dynamic was tried and true, solidified after years of partnership. They knew damn well what worked and what didn’t. If the lines became muddled after all this time, what else was there for Catherine to cling to? It was better to keep what they have, rather than mull over what-ifs.

Suddenly, a sound pealed across the clearing. Sharp and splintering, like trees snapping under the wind. Alarmed, Catherine observed as a nearby shutter dropped off its hinge. It fell the ground in an indignant heap. She stared dully at it for a moment before Bothild’s exasperated huff roused her.

“This old chapel is on its last legs. Honestly, if it’s not one thing it’s another.” The nun rose on her knees, brushing the grass from her knees. “Looks like a trip to the smith is in order. I wasn’t in the mood for a trek through the woods, but alas...”

“Smith? Woods?” Catherine cocked her head, puzzled. “I didn’t realize a smith fixed shutters. And why would you need to walk through the forest?”

“In small communities like these, favors are often traded in lieu of gold.” Bothild explained simply. The older woman gestured towards the south airily. “Old Weyland is the only metalworker in these parts. Nails and the like are relatively easy to forge and the village relies upon him greatly. However, he’s an odd fellow.”

“How so? Is he some sort of hermit?”

“In a word.” The nun appeared to think, broad features pensive. “Not a bad man, by any stretch. But he has little patience for people. He knows his craft, of course. A shame he insists on living so far from town.”

“In that case, why don’t I grab the supplies for you?” Catherine perked, keen to jump on the opportunity. Washing laundry had taken her mind off the itching under her skin, but it was not quite the same as a hearty walk. With luck, she’d be able to expend her restless energy. “Point me in the right direction and I’ll be off.”

“There’s no need to do that.” Bothild glanced at her sidelong, brows raised. “It’s quite the trek and the brush is denser than you might think. I think Shay would be very cross with me should you injure yourself.”

“I’m not incapable or dimwitted.” Catherine bristled inadvertently. Then she took a deep breath, forcing her tone to remain even. “And _Shay_ doesn’t need to know. She’s still at the market right? I’ll be back before she even notices my absence.”

“Well, I can’t stop you if your mind is made. But mind the weather, at least. If another storm blows through the journey will be much more difficult.”

As if called by the prospect of adventure, a tiny figure shimmied down from a nearby tree. A toothy grin was flashed Catherine’s way. Apparently, they had a little eavesdropper in their midst. Connla wiped a sleeve across his nose before scurrying to Catherine’s side.

“You’re going to Weyland’s, right? I can take you!” He tugged insistently on the Knight’s arm. “Please? I know all the best shortcuts.”

“I, uh...” Catherine looked over at Bothild, expecting to see a pointed glower. To her surprise, the woman only appeared amused.

“That’s not a terrible idea. The boy may be scatter-brained but he knows these woods like no other.” The nun smiled down at him. “Guide our guest well, won’t you?”

Connla nodded fiercely before darting towards the south. He waved his hands, beckoning for Catherine to follow. Bemused by the whole affair, she trailed after him. It did not take long for her to be grateful for his presence. The thicket was dense, more than she had expected. Gnarled roots of every size curled from the earth in twisting patterns, making each step a treacherous venture. The trees were taller here in the north, blanketing the area in shadow. Overgrown shrubs, having lost their leaves and color, formed wooden barricades in their path.

Luckily, Connla seemed to know each twisting curve of the forest. His steps were sure and certain, not a trace of hesitation to be seen. He hurried Catherine onward, flying through the skeletal foliage like a hare. By comparison, she must have seemed like a lumbering old dog.

“Come on! It’s just up here.”

“Alright already.” Catherine grimaced as her ankle tangled with a thorny bush. Shaking the limb free, she exhaled in irritation. “So is there a proper reason for why this smith lives out here? I find it hard to believe people make this trek daily.”

“It’s better, usually.” Connla leaped atop a nearby rock, balancing. “The path isn’t so bad in the summer. But with the war, I don’t think anyone wanted to bother. Maybe someone will clear it out soon.”

“And what does your smith have to say for himself? You would think a working man would do all he could to get business.”

The boy shrugged, blithe and careless.

“I don’t know. He comes to town sometimes, but not for long. I don’t think people like him that much.”

“I wonder why.” Catherine scowled as her leg collided with an overturned trunk. The pain chafed at her nerves. “All this for a handful of nails and a hinge? I’m surprised the village puts up with him.”

“I don’t think anyone knows how to work a forge.” Connla leaned against a nearby tree, watching the Knight’s slow progress. “Bothild says it takes a lot of training and mister Weyland doesn’t want to teach.”

“He’s that stubborn?”

“Suppose so,” Connla commented, sniffing. “He’s gonna have a lot of work to do soon. Stuff starts to break when winter comes.”

The boy brightened as they crested over a leafy knoll. Abruptly the thicket gave way, revealing a small glade. In the middle was a cabin, small and compact. The wood was clearly worn by time and the elements, peeling away like an orange rind. Smoke plumed to the left of the structure. It twisted lazily into the sky. Catherine tilted her head, a sound catching her attention. It echoed throughout the area, bouncing from tree to tree. Metallic. Rhythmic. The signature of a smith in motion.

She moved toward it instinctively. Around the cabin’s side, a workshop was revealed. Her eyes landed on the flash of forge fire, glowing sparks forming a halo of warm yellow. It was a generous setup by rural standards. The forge itself was sizable, hardly the ramshackle rig she had expected. A workbench lay sequestered in the corner, accompanied by various tools. A jarring clang sounded to the right, startling her. A man stood a few paces away, hammering atop a block of metal. He stilled as their eyes met.

“Do I know you?” His voice was a hoarse rumble, like rocks knocking against each other. The unpleasantness was compounded by a creaking rasp; perhaps from smoking or merely from the fumes he inhaled daily. He straightened and Catherine inspected him fully. The smith was lanky, solid of arm and shoulder. Eyes dark as coal bore from a long face. There was something unnerving about the intensity of his stare — as if he were dissecting each line of Catherine’s features. It was not a kind look by any means. Before she could answer him, Connla appeared from behind her legs.

“We’re here for nails! A shutter broke at the church today. Sister Bothild said you’d help.”

“Hmph. Did she now?” The man grunted with palpable derision. His gaze remained hard and unwelcoming. “Fine. Take what you need, but no more than that. I’ll need the nails for more important things than a busted shutter.”

“Like what? Mending the fence you don’t have?” Catherine frowned, her earlier frustration reappearing. The smith’s face pinched.

“Fences, aye. Not mine, but the village will need them. Chickens and horses don’t corral themselves.” He gave the Knight an appraising look. “You’re not from Culann. You got the look of the south about you.”

“Cassia’s a soldier,” Connla provided helpfully. “She got hurt in the war so now she’s on her way to Sreng to get healed.”

“Sreng? You would be better off looking for help in Aillel.” Weyland snorted grimly. “Whatever pleases you. If some southern idiot wants to wander into a savage horde, all the better.”

He turned his back to them.

“Go on, then. You’ll find what you need in that crate.”

“Thank you, sir!” Connla, nonplussed from the man’s gruff disposition, moved to fetch the supplies. Catherine stayed in place, observing the smith. Weyland seemed content to ignore her. The man continued his hammering, flakes of orange rending from the metal. After a moment, the man pulled the slab vertically with a pair of tongs. Then he latched it to the nearby vice and heaved. The metal refused to move. Weyland huffed and tried again. Yet, for all his effort, the molten iron refused to give. Catherine’s brow furrowed.

“What are you trying to do anyway?”

“I’m working you idiot, what does it look like?” The man tossed her a scathing glare. “Damn water pump burst a month ago and I’m the only one who can fix it. Useless fools...”

“Do you need help?”

“Ha! From you?” His dark gaze flicked down her frame, lips pulling into a sneer. She did not miss the way he lingered upon her bad leg. “You don’t get a lame horse to pull a plow. You would only get in the way.”

She felt her cheek twitch, angered, but was distracted by his frustrated grumbling. Weyland cranked the vice loose and placed the metal back into the flames with a scowl. There, the slab heated from dull red back to brilliant orange.

“Cassia, I got the nails!”

Catherine blinked as Connla appeared again. The boy held up his hands, revealing the supplies. She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

“I can see that.” She paused as Weyland let loose a muffled curse. “Connla, go ahead and take those back to the Church.”

“Huh? But what about you?”

She rolled up her sleeves and tied back her hair.

“I’m staying to help the smith. Tell Shay not to worry about me, alright?”

“Okay...” The boy’s eyes darted in concern, but he did not protest. He hovered around the workshop entrance before taking his leave. Alone with the smith, Catherine wandered near the anvil. Weyland was watching her, his scowl more pronounced than before.

“I told you I didn’t need your help, girl. You’ll only make my work harder.”

“From what I can see, you need all the help you can get.” She crossed her arms, keeping her back straight. The position drew attention to the musculature of her torso, a fact she knew well. “My leg may be weak, but I wager that I’m twice as strong as you. If that metal doesn’t bend the first time, then I’ll leave you alone. But if it does, you let me help.”

“If you’re expecting a reward—”

“I’m not.”

The smith scoffed in disbelief. He displaced the metal from the coals and brought it to the vice for another pull. This time, Catherine followed. Quickly, Weyland secured the slab and stepped away.

“Fine, I’ll humor you. One twist is all you get, understand?”

“Clearly.” She reached for offered tongs, grasping them tightly in her hands. Her fingers flexed on the grip. The metal slab was thick and cylindrical. A normal man would struggle for certain, but Catherine was neither of those things. She had always excelled where others failed and this would be no different. She tensed her shoulders and heaved. For a breathless instant, the metal remained firm and unyielding. Then, like ice melting in the sun, it slowly bent under the pressure. She gnashed her teeth and continued to wrench against the vise.

“That’s enough.” Weyland boomed from behind her. “I don’t want you to snap the damn thing.”

Triumphant, Catherine released her hold. She panted into her forearm, smiling.

“What did I tell you? Easier than churning butter.” The Knight shook out her hands. “Better than what you managed, at least.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself. The only advantage you have is youth.” The smith leaned over the vise, inspecting the bend. “...I suppose this would save me some time. Maybe those nagging hens in the village will finally shut their mouths.”

“So you’re going to let me help?”

Weyland’s brow wrinkled, but he did not refute the offer. He scratched at his bushy mustache thoughtfully.

“I’m not fool enough to turn aside a helpful hand. If you want to waste your day being my lackey, I’ll not stop you. But only for today.”

The smith moved the curved metal back to the forge, grabbing his hammer from the bench.

“Now use those tongs and hold this still for me. I have to form the spigot mouth.”

Soon the workshop became saturated with the blaze of flame and the ringing echo of steel. The mechanical repetition of flesh pulling metal high before crashing it upon molten surface filled each breath. Sparks leaped from churning coals in an endless dance of heat. All the while, Catherine watched on; rapt. She had averted her eyes the first few strikes, finding an unnerving similarity in the fire that spoke of a night long reviled.

Then, it changed. As the metal bent and transformed, shaping from undefinable mass to curved purpose, she saw something. There, within the metal — between the hammer blows that chafed away the iron — was an answer to a question Catherine hadn't dared to ask. It was a revelation, watching this broken and cobbled length be repurposed. The new rising from the ashes of the old. Suddenly, the fire did not scald and the memories she kept did not sear her throat.

As the day passed and the sweat draped her brow, Catherine drank in the warmth gladly. It kept in her bones long after, following her back to the Church.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_In the days following her arrival at Garreg Mach, Cassandra found herself praying incessantly. She held the Goddess high in her heart and mind, as only a good Faerghus noble should, but her faith was an afterthought at best. Her days were better spent on thinking about concrete worries, or so she had thought. Perhaps that was the reason she found herself so beset with uncertainty at present. If she had prayed in earnest from the start, would answers be more forthcoming?_

_Cassandra bowed her head as she knelt, hands clasped in front of her. She was in the cathedral; the only place she visited of late, other than her quarters. For hours she would stay, bowed in front of the Goddess’ image. The shadow of the saint’s statues arched above her head. She muttered under her breath, repeating every litany she had ever heard. Yet for all this effort, nothing ever came of it. The cathedral was as barren and silent as ever. A desperation she wouldn’t admit to had started to collect in her stomach._

** _Tell me, Goddess. Show me what I must do. Please._ **

_Cassandra opened her eyes. The flicker of candlelight greeted her. She swallowed her disappointment and reminded herself that reward was given to the patient. It would happen, in time. She just needed to trust in the Archbishop’s words. Until then… Momentarily defeated, the young woman climbed to her feet._

_“You’ve been here for quite some time.”_

_Startled, Cassandra whirled on her heel. A man was seated in the nearby pews, observing her. He was much older than her, of an age with her father. There was something familiar about his stern features. He folded his large arms and the movement sparked her memory._

_“Lord Gustave.” She bowed her head in respect. The man was a prominent noble and steadfast bannerman for the crown. His House has served the Blaiddyd’s loyally since the Kingdom’s birth. She had met him sparingly over the years, though never under such tense circumstances. Cassandra tensed as she pondered the possible implications of his presence. “Are you here to arrest me? I had thought the Grand Duke would want me to retrieve me himself.”_

_“Nothing so sordid, I assure you.” The man’s pale eyes flicked to the cathedral altar. His expression remained impassive. “My days of serving in such a capacity are long behind me. Your name wasn’t the only one besmirched by the events of Duscur.”_

_“You…? But you’re an esteemed Lord.”_

_“What is a Lord but a title other’s place? My honor and duty are stained. By my actions as well as others.” Gustave’s jaw flexed with hidden tension. “I understand that the events that brought you here are similar to my own. Her Grace was quite firm in that.”_

_“I’m not sure they are,” Cassandra admitted. “I don’t know why you’re here, but my reasons are probably less honorable.”_

_“Is that so?” The Lord tilted his head slightly. “I’ll not ask you for them. Your secrets are yours.”_

_“Thank you, Sir.” Cassandra hesitated. She took in his clothing and recognized the distinctive Crest of Seiros emblazoned upon his armor. It registered then, why he was at Garreg Mach. “You joined the Knights of Seiros, didn’t you?”_

_He glanced at her briefly but did not respond. She did not need him to. The truth was written in the stiff set of his shoulders._

_“But why?” She asked, incredulous. “You have a House to lead; a land to govern. A Knight cannot do any of those things.”_

_“It’s not a matter of capability.” Gustave’s features tightened. He looked haggard; drawn. “I am not worthy to lead my House. Not with the failure I carry. It was my negligence that led to His Majesty’s death.”_

_“No one could have known.”_

_“I should have. And had I not been complacent, Faerghus would still have a King.” The former Lord rubbed his temple. “I don’t know if one as young as you could understand, but the regrets I carry threaten to drag me into the depths of hell. I need to correct these wrongs if I am to face my country again. As a man. As a father. It must be so.”_

_“So you’ll throw your family aside for pride?”_

_“They are better left with a man that keeps his honor than a coward that accepts his failures.” Gustave rose, sending one last look towards the altar. “Maybe they won’t forgive me. However, I cannot forgive myself if I do not atone. Serving the Goddess will grant me some measure of salvation. Perhaps when my life is spent and my work is done, I will be allowed to greet them with pride.”_

_“You really think atonement is that easy?” Cassandra frowned at him._

_“Hardly. It will take time and effort. But if it means my regrets will be washed clean...” He shook his head solemnly. “I am already old. What’s a little more time spent in service to something greater? While I can still fight, I would like to offer my blade.”_

_“And what will be at the end? Death at the hands of a bandit, or some noble git who wants to spark an uprising?”_

_“Forgiveness.”_

_Cassandra stared. She hadn’t been expecting that answer. Gustave walked towards the cathedral doors. After he left, she wondered at the meaning of what he said. Did he mean forgiveness from the crown? For supposedly failing them in Duscur? Or did he mean forgiveness from the Goddess? She could not say for certain and did not know which would be more worthwhile. The word rang in her mind, teasing her of possibility._

_If Gustave was right… If she could find pardon within the ranks of the Goddess…_

_Was her honor not as lost as she feared? The concept lingered, cloying like a song._

  
  


* * *

  
  


An axe swung down neatly, cracking a log in twain. The two pieces fell to the side in a heap. Catherine wiped her face with her shirt. Chopping wood was a hard and necessary task. With winter drawing near, a great supply would be needed. Thankfully, Bothild had granted her the job. Both the nun and Shamir were far too preoccupied tending to the village. The ache it left her with would be regrettable, but in the meantime, Catherine was grateful for the busywork. She didn’t need her body wasting away to bone and fat. Muscle took a great deal to maintain, after all. The Knight hefted the axe up and savored the burn in her arms. Then, she placed another piece onto the block.

“Bothild sent me to get you. Dinner is almost ready.” Shamir appeared in a whirl of white robes. It was odd to see her bedecked in such vestments. The bright color did not quite suit her brooding features, not that Catherine would ever say as much. The Dagdan woman was staring intently, violet eyes dark with an unknown emotion. “I think the woodpile is stocked for now. It’s best if you take a break.”

“Heh. Concerned?” Catherine smirked thinly, gracing her partner with a mocking glance. Her expression fell as Shamir’s mouth twisted. The other woman wasn’t in a joking mood, it seemed. It was an unnervingly common trend these past few days. Sighing, Catherine relaxed her stance. “Sorry, you’re right. Let me finish the last stack and I’ll be done.”

“We have plenty. You’re just exhausting yourself.”

“It’s better than doing nothing.” The Knight rolled her shoulders. She groaned as her arm socket popped. “You’re off doing who knows what, and I’m stuck here with a pair of kids. At least this way I can be somewhat productive.”

“Is that why you insisted on helping the smith?” Shamir’s gaze turned analytical. “I don’t know what you expected with that stunt. It’s not as if the man would offer you his weight in gold. Why did you bother?”

“Neighborly kindness.” Catherine shrugged. She swung the axe for another deep chop. “The man needed help. I was there. It’s pretty simple. Who knows? Maybe if I prove my worth he’ll take me on.”

“As what exactly?”

“An assistant, maybe? Hell, there could be some gold in it after all. We do need coin once the bridge is fixed.” Catherine shot her partner an easy grin. “Have some faith, Lady _Shay_. I know what I’m doing.”

“Hm. Do what you want.” Shamir hummed idly, leaning her weight on her back foot. She looked poised to run, like a fox slipping from a snare. “I’ll be inside. If a bear grabs you, try not to make much of a fuss. I hear they like that.”

Shamir stepped away, ready to depart. Thinking quickly, Catherine reached for the woman. She held her gently, thumb grazing the knob of her wrist.

“Wait. Please.”

Her partner stilled. Shamir looked up into her face, a questioning tilt to her brow. The sunset painted her features in warm hues. She appeared less distant than she had; tangible in a way Catherine couldn’t put to words. The Knight continued, unwilling to let the moment pass.

“I don’t like it when you’re angry with me,” She began. Her voice lowered in register, betraying tumult. “I know I’m not the easiest to be around. Not with... recent events. And normally, I deserve it.”

Catherine took a measured breath.

“However, this time I can’t comprehend why. I don’t know what I said that angered you and I don’t know how to make it better.”

“...I’m not angry.” Shamir’s eyes dipped away, landing on Catherine’s collar. The Knight made a disgruntled noise.

“You are. Have been for days. You think I can’t tell the difference?” Catherine leaned in. “I’ve noticed, you know. The way you avoid me. The lengths you go to stay out of sight.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Then why haven’t you come back to our room?”

The Dagdan woman’s lips pursed. Abruptly, her head twisted to face Catherine. Their noses grazed.

“Our room? Is that really how you think of it?”

“I…” Catherine waffled, caught off guard. She stared into her partner’s eyes. “Yes. Should I not?”

Shamir sighed, breath sliding past Catherine’s face.

“There are plenty of rooms and the church isn’t lacking for space. It didn’t make much sense to continue sharing.” She slipped free of the taller woman’s hold. “It wasn’t out of spite, though I can see how you would come to that conclusion.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“I’ve been busy. It’s nothing as insidious as some unspoken grudge.”

“You’re lying.” Catherine walked near, flinging the axe to the ground. “This all started a few days ago when I teased your cooking. Are you still sore about that? Because I told you—”

“I wouldn’t become incensed over something so petty.” Shamir glared heatedly. “Give me more credit than that.”

“Then what is it? Is it because I started talking about the Knights?” Catherine paused, seeing her partner shift suddenly at the mention. “Wait. That’s what this is about? Why–”

“It was how you spoke of them. That’s all.” The archer’s jaw twitched. “The way you reminisced over the war… It made me ill.”

“It’s not as if I was fond of it.” The taller woman deflated, somewhat abashed. “I don’t miss the fighting. Not in the slightest. The only thing I regret is how everything ended. The end of the Kingdom. The fall of the Church. The death of our Lady...”

Shamir’s expression soured.

“It wasn’t just the war. You’ve always held up our time at Garreg Mach as some gilded standard. Has it ever occurred to you that I don’t look upon those days with joy?”

“We were at peace,” Catherine remarked, confused. “We had a roof over our head and cause to work towards. We served the highest authority with pride.”

“An authority I never believed in. A cause perverted by corruption. And the peace you speak of? It was a lie.” Shamir’s lip pulled between her teeth. “I’ve kept my silence in respect to your grief, but I cannot hold my tongue any longer. The world has changed, Catherine, and we need to change with it. Clinging to what was will only hurt us both in the end.”

“Shamir...” Catherine took a cautious step, lips parting. “I’m not clinging to anything. I swear to you.”

“You are. You have been for years.” The Dagdan woman looked away bitterly. “Even in death, they keep their hold over you. The Knights. Rhea. All of it. The most tragic part is how you refuse to let go.”

Shamir turned her back and stalked off.

“Until you do, I’ll be here. Waiting.”

Catherine blinked at her retreating form. Her hands balled into fists. Then she wiped her face and grabbed the axe once more. Wood cleaved beneath steel, parting under violent swings. A part of her, one built of secret shame and burdensome guilt, whispered that she was a fool. Catherine ignored it, even as she tentatively agreed.

  
  


* * *

  
  


A day’s passing found the former Knight knocking at Weyland’s door. The smith answered on the fifth collision of her fist. From the irate scowl he wore, he was not pleased to see her. That suited her fine. She did not need the man to like her.

“The hell do you want?” Weyland peered his head out. “And at this hour? Don’t tell me that nun of yours needs another shutter fixed.”

“I don’t need a repair,” Catherine stated firmly. She stood tall in the doorway, confident in a way she hadn’t felt for months. “I need a job and I want you to hire me.”

The smith glared at her, mustache bristling. Then he choked out an incredulous laugh.

“What a lark! One task done and now you’re banging at my door asking for work.” He scratched at the salted fuzz atop his head. “You got some stones, girl. I’ll grant you that much.”

“I’m being serious. I’m willing to do whatever you ask, no matter the difficulty.” Catherine folded her head across her chest and moved into a bow. The man’s eyes narrowed.

“What sort of courtly nonsense are you pulling? Stop making an idiot of yourself.” Weyland strode out from his home in a huff. “Look around you. Does it look like I have the coin to spare? Even if I was of a mind to hire, it wouldn’t be a fortune.”

“I don’t need much of a wage. Just something. And from what I have seen, you can use the assistance.”

“Careful, girl, lest my patience reaches its end.” The smith glowered with a snarl. “I’ve made do all these years without any sort of spare hand. Hiring some southern lass with a bad leg? I might as well slap a mummer’s cap on too.”

“You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”

“You’re strong, aye, but that’s no substitute for wits and a keen eye. Both of which are needed here.”

“I’m only going to be here for a few weeks.” Catherine ventured, insistent. “Keep me on until then and prove my worth. You can give whatever wage you please. I won’t complain.”

“You would work for practically nothing?” Suspicion flashed across the man’s dark eyes. “Why would you agree to such a thing?”

“My reasons are my own.”

“I would hear them.”

“Why?” Catherine shifted on her heels, uneasy. She watched as Weyland leaned against the doorframe. He gestured meaningfully with his hands.

“If I’m going to trust someone with my forge and livelihood, I should know a bit about them. So speak clearly and true.”

“I just need the coin. That’s the short of it,” Catherine hedged. From his unimpressed snort, the man didn’t seem to accept the explanation.

“You could find work in the village. I imagine they’d show some measure of mercy on a cripple like you.”

“I’m not a _cripple_.” Catherine lifted her lips into a sneer. “I can walk and, more importantly, I can work. Maybe I could find a job elsewhere, but that’s not what I want.”

“And working for me is? You’re an odd one.” Weyland thumbed the ends of his mustache. “Still doesn’t explain why you came to me. Since it’s not coin you’re after, what in the world are you hoping to accomplish?”

The Knight stilled, falling quiet. She gathered herself for a time. Then, summoning her courage, she admitted the truth.

“There’s... a woman. Someone who I care about greatly. And someone I have not done right by.” Catherine looked down at her feet. “After the war ended, I lost a bit of myself. I’m not just speaking of my leg either. But this woman stayed with me throughout it all. She deserves more than the problems I’ve placed on her.”

“Hmph. So this is your reason? How simple.” Weyland clicked his tongue dismissively. “Sounds like an excuse to me. Suck it up and apologize. Don’t make your problems mine.”

“It’s not just for her. Not really.” The woman rubbed her neck, unable to meet his stare. “She’s just the context. The truth is I’m tired of dragging her down. I’m tired of being a burden. Most of all, I’m tired of not being able to help in return. She’s doing everything for us, and what have I done? Nothing.”

Catherine glanced back at the man.

“Maybe it’s my pride. Maybe I’m just an idiot like you said. But I’m not budging on this. Helping you in that forge was the closest I’ve felt to being useful again. I want to prove I can do this. For her and for me.”

Weyland blinked at her. His cheeks pulled into a contemplative frown. Slowly, the man’s head tilted into a nod.

“...That’s not the worst reason, I suppose. Not the greatest, mind you, but at least you’re self-aware. More than I had expected.” He rubbed his chin, eyes roving the heavens. “Come back tomorrow morning. You want work? I’ll put you to work.”

“Thank you.” Catherine relaxed, chest flooding with relief. “You won’t regret it.”

“That remains to be seen,” Weyland grumbled under his breath. “Tell that church marm I expect a pie to be baked for me. She already owes me for the nails. This is going to cost her extra.”

**Next Chapter: Calcination**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy Cathmir Week everybody! I know this doesn't technically count, but It'll have to do for now. Once more, personal life kept me away; much to my chagrin. No promises, but I am going to try and speed up this process a bit. As for the chapter, I do have some things I would like to talk about. Firstly, the name is a bit ambiguous so let's touch on that. When I say Striker, I don't mean in the literal way a hammer strikes metal or a flint striker. A Striker is an assistant to a smith who typically uses a sledgehammer to work on jobs that require heavy blows (like large forge welds). The Striker can also be an apprentice. It's easy to extrapolate that I'm referring to the events in the chapter relating to our smith friend. However, I'm also trying to demonstrate the effect certain people have had on Catherine's life. Namely Rhea and the Knights of Seiros as a whole. If her life was a billet and her the smith, they would be the striker. Did I overthink this? Probably, but most of you know how I am heh. The other thing I wanted to mention was how Catherine is faring in the present; mostly her relationship with Shamir. Obviously, it's not going the smoothest but what's a romance without a few hiccups? A dynamic I've always really found interesting was when both parties know there's something there but refuse to embrace it for various reasons. It's different than the uncertainty and anticipation of the opposite, as I did with Edeleth. 
> 
> So far, this has been wildly fun to write out and I hope you all enjoy it just as much. This story is now the longest piece I've written (would you believe me if I said the outline only had this at 5 chapters max?) and there's still more to come. Please leave me your thoughts, if you don't mind! I love hearing how people are feeling. Thank you so much for the kudos and for reading! <3 - AdraCat


	10. Calcination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A village wanes in slow increments as a nun and her assistant conduct their work.  
The process of healing and its idiosyncrasies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my favorite beta, johnxfire~

In the frigid vastness of the North, days did not pass in a wink. They crawled, long and slow; until sun bled into moon and stars heralded the end. The few weeks they had spent here had not been enough for Shamir to grow accustomed. The land was, as ever, foreign and strange. The air whispered of winter’s onset with each coming morn. It was a portent of harsh snows and biting frost. The village of Culann was not likely to survive it. Not at present. She knew that much for certain.

With each day that passed her confidence in this grew. Culann was too small to combat the inevitable spite of winter. The few able folk they had were mostly women and children. The others… Shamir was not hopeful for their odds. The war’s aftermath was keenly felt. Limbs raggedly cut from their joints, pocked scars raised from burned flesh; she had witnessed it all. And those who were physically whole were often beleaguered by wounds unseen. A farmer did not hold a sword without regret.

Still, it took great courage to not flinch from these horrors — more-so to try and mend them. Above all else, it was that which caused Shamir to look upon their host with respect. Bothild was tireless; dedicated to her craft and calm in the face of wounds, both minor and severe. She did not flinch nor shy from what needed to be done. If she was affected by the grisly nature of her work, the nun did not betray such thoughts. It made the Dagdan woman wonder as to the life she had led before settling in Culann. That thought only deepened in strength as saw the response those same efforts garnered.

For all of Bothild’s assistance, the villagers treated her with reluctant tolerance – as one might a stray dog wandering too close to their door. Shamir had been perplexed, at first. Then, realization dawned as one hapless man cowered under Bothild’s magic. His eyes had widened, fixated on her robes and hands. In the end, the man refused to be treated. Bothild withdrew then, seemingly resigned. After, she had offered an herbal remedy before taking her leave.

“Do not think ill of them,” the nun whispered as they left. “They do not trust anyone who aligns with the Church. The tale of Fhirdiad has reached far and they are wary of retribution. These lands are overseen by House Gautier, after all.”

“I can understand their reservations. But you’ve lived here as their neighbor. Why wouldn’t they trust you?”

“I have only been here a handful of years.” Bothild sighed. The woman’s features were taught with exhaustion. “They were suspicious of me from the start. And tensions have only grown as conflict with the Empire and Church raged. Even if many of them remain devout, they dare not beseech the Goddess beneath the chapel roof. They keep their prayers to themselves.”

“Yet you continue to help them.” Shamir scrutinized the nun for a long moment. “That’s admirable if foolish. Why do you stay when they treat you like this?”

“They needed a healer, so here I am. Should I abandon them to disease and strife for a bit of personal comfort?” Bothild smiled wryly. “Nay, I’ll not do that. It would be against the Goddess’ wishes.”

It was a familiar sentiment – the faithful invoking their goddess to affirm a choice. But Shamir could not quite find fault with the woman’s reasoning. Nor could she bring herself to scold Bothild for simply wanting to help. So she bit her tongue and followed the nun to her next patient. Several days passed in this manner; an endless cycle of hesitantly accepted aid and threadbare gratitude. Thankfully, none seemed to spare Shamir any further consideration. The few who did glance her way were often cowed by her morose silence. Their eyes did not linger for long.

The Dagdan woman found herself wondering the point of it all. The village was on the brink of collapse and the winter would not bring these people any respite. They would need to leave this place if they wished to survive. But if Bothild was aware of the futility of her actions, she never revealed as much. Shamir was tempted to comment, if only to spare the woman further grief in the future. However, she had the feeling the criticism would fall on deaf ears. If they all chose to blind themselves to reality, that was their choice. Shamir would not spare concern upon those too stubborn to see the truth.

Save for one.

Her lips pursed at the reminder. She pondered if it was a uniquely Faerghus mindset to hold onto the past so readily. Was it simply ingrained, this need to stay and correct perceived mistakes? Were they all like her partner, desperately sinking their teeth into a cause and unwilling to let go? It would certainly explain some things.

No. That wasn't quite fair. Shamir knew even she had fallen into those very same trappings. Even now she could not bring herself to toss aside the remnants of a man long dead. His shattered dagger lay where she hid it; a jagged reminder of things she refused to forget. It was hypocrisy to expect her partner to do what she could not. Yet still, she hoped for otherwise.

_Catherine..._

“The sun is setting faster now.”

Shamir roused from her thoughts and looked to the older woman. Bothild was staring up at the sky, brows slanted.

“Won’t be long until we’re inundated with snow. Soon, the pass will open its maw and ice will flood the valley.”

“I suppose it will. Preferably, only after the bridge is rebuilt.” Shamir glanced towards the mountain’s sloping face. “The Wyvern moon is almost done. I had thought Lord Gautier would have repaired it by now.”

“I imagine Her Majesty is keeping the young lord preoccupied.” The nun bundled up her supplies, rolling up a spare length of bandage. Then she tucked them within her pack. “A difficult thing, mending a broken nation. It’s not too dissimilar to what we’re doing. Both require a fine touch.”

“Hmm.” Shamir hummed faintly. She watched the older woman tie her pack atop a sedate mare. The very same one who had carried her and Catherine across this wretched country. The horse’s frame was fuller of late, evidence of Bothild’s spoiling. “And do you think they will see to it before the first snow falls?”

“It is a certainty if I am any judge.” Bothild craned her head, gaze considering. “Be at ease, dear girl. It is not wise to be too keen nor hasty. All things come in time.”

_Time is for those who can spare it. And it has already proven to take what it can of mine._ Shamir bit her cheek, keeping her tongue still. Such a curt response was unearned. The woman did not deserve her irritation. Not when she had been uncommonly helpful. Had Bothild not taken them in, they would have been washed away.

“We’ll see.” She adjusted her gloves idly, turning an eye to the distant clouds. It was a clear day at present. But the weather in the north was mercurial at best. The nights were particularly unbearable. "נמאס לי לישון בלעדייך. לעזאזל, קתרין."

“Is that a prayer from your motherland, Shay?” Bothild’s brows pulled high across her face. The nun’s smile was tinged with bemusement.

“It’s not a prayer,” Shamir denied quickly. She refused to elaborate further, taking the horse’s reins in hand. Warmth flushed her cheeks and she clenched her jaw in reflex. It was not often that she found herself seized by idle fancy. Yet another thing to blame her partner for. “Let’s go. I’m sure the others are waiting for us.”

  
  


* * *

To her surprise, she was only partly correct. The children waited for them dutifully, Connla ever excitable and Aife trailing at his back. However, Catherine was nowhere to be seen. It concerned her for a faint instant before realization dawned._ The smith. Of course._ At the reminder, other more pertinent worries remained.

Truthfully, Catherine’s sudden preoccupation left her annoyed. She was uncertain why the Knight felt it was necessary. Coin would be needed, but there were better means of procuring it. Playing apprentice to an isolated smith was hardly ideal. Bothild patted her arm with a sympathetic glance. Shamir stilled, frowning in response. Her frustration must have been apparent.

“Shall we start on dinner? I think we’ve all worked up an appetite.” The nun ushered her wards into the church. Shamir stared after them, hand still entangled within leather. She released her hold as the horse dipped its head. The animal nuzzled into a sparse clump of grass and Shamir swept a hand through a dark mane.

Then, she looked to the southern wood. Shadows convened between each tree, melding into the pale bark. All was still, betraying nothing in the way of life. She half expected Catherine to appear at the edge, hair windblown and tangled with leaves. But that did not happen and Shamir could not help the pang of loss she felt.

“Pathetic.” She placed a hand to her brow, trying to rub away her irritation. “As if my longing would summon her. If that were true—”

_She would never leave my side._

Shamir took a deep breath, collecting herself. Then she patted the mare’s neck and entered the church. It was fruitless to worry over things beyond her control. Catherine was responsible for her own actions. She did not need to know every step her partner took. So she forced her mind to remain on the present task and not on Catherine’s whereabouts. It proved harder than expected.

Finally, after dinner had been wrangled and served, the missing woman appeared. She swept into the church, steps harsh and lumbering. A mantle of exhaustion hung over her shoulders. Shamir watched her keenly, conscious of the woman’s halting walk. But Catherine did not seem pained nor did she whisper a word of complaint. The children rushed to cling to her legs and the woman smiled.

As blue eyes shimmered with mirth, it occurred to Shamir that she hadn’t seen that look in quite some time. Perhaps this ill-advised venture wasn’t quite so idiotic; not if it brought her partner some measure of peace. Catherine faced her, smile falling slightly.

“Shay,” the taller woman greeted in a sigh. It was hard to tell what emotion colored her tone. Catherine looked tense, but there was a questioning glint to her stare. Shamir blinked before turning back to her plate.

“Cassia.” The Dagdan woman paused for a moment. Catherine’s eyes never left her and she felt it like a brand. Finally, Shamir relented and offered her partner a slight nod. “Welcome back.”

She ignored the warmth in her chest as Catherine grinned. Their troubles were far from resolved and there was still much that needed to be said. But she did not desire a feud over dinner or while in the company of others. It could wait until they were alone. But as her partner settled at the table, expression light and quick to laughter, Shamir felt her tension drain. It was strange how one person’s mood could sway her own. Only Catherine, rash and infuriating as she was, could affect her like this.

Hours later, far past the time when two children slid into slumber, Shamir wandered out onto the chapel porch. She crossed her arms and leaned against a wooden beam. Her eyes drifted to the village, towards flickering lights barely glimpsed through the thicket. Slowly, some began to dim. The village would fall to darkness soon and only the moon’s glow would be left. The winking blanket of stars was obscured by dark clouds. Another foul turn of weather was expected, or so Bothild claimed.

She was tired of it, in truth. This weather. This land. All of it. And soon, they would go even further north — straight into winter’s icy grip. It was a half-mad plan. She was well aware of that. But their choices were few. They needed to keep moving, beyond the influence of the Empire and far from the ghosts that haunted them both.

She wondered what Catherine thought of it all. Considering the wistful regret in her eyes when they spoke, maybe the Knight did not share her desire.

_Do you ache for her? Do you yearn to be at her side, even in death?_

Shamir breathed out, misting the air. She had always known the depth of her partner’s devotion. Whether love or something greater, it never mattered. So long as she too could carve a place in Catherine’s heart. Or so Shamir had forced herself to believe. An uneven patter earned her attention. She turned sharply, eyes landing upon her partner’s tall frame.

“There you are.” Catherine ambled near. The line of her jaw was tight, belying her easy grin. “I thought you might be asleep, but your room was empty.”

“Is there a reason you were looking for me?” Shamir looked back at the village. The archer’s shoulders tensed as Catherine stood next to her.

“Not for anything specific, no.” The Knight audibly inhaled before folding her arms. Her posture mirrored Shamir’s as they both stared at the distant settlement lights. “Is there something wrong with me seeking you out? Or shall I avoid you in return?”

Despite herself, a disgruntled scoff escaped the Dagdan woman. She held her tongue as Catherine eyed her silently.

“You’re still angry with me.” The Knight sighed, fair brows pinched. “Is it something else now or just more of the same?”

“I’ve already given you my answer, Catherine.” Shamir shifted on her toes, leaning away from her partner. The chapel beam creaked as she settled her weight against it. “But if you want my honesty, you’ll have it. This little occupation of yours doesn’t exactly thrill me.”

“I thought Dagda respected metallurgy. Didn’t you once say most soldiers were also learned in the forge?”

“My respect for the craft has no bearing here.” She set her teeth, glaring heatedly at Catherine. “I knew you were dissatisfied with playing nanny, but you could have found work in the village.”

“Sure, I could have. Maybe weaving or sewing, and other work for idling maids.” The Knight straightened, huffing in apparent affront. “Do I look practiced in either? My hands have only known iron and steel.”

“So you strain yourself more than you already have?”

Surprise flit across her partner’s face. Shamir continued, letting hidden frustration stain her tone.

“You might not want to acknowledge it but your body isn’t as strong as it once was. Yet you insist on slaving away under metal and flame.”

“You don’t think me capable?” Hurt blossomed within pale blue. The sight caused an answering pang within her chest. Shamir averted her gaze.

“Of course I do. But whether you are able to do something is different than if you should. I don’t want you to wound yourself without reason.”

“You’re concerned for me.” Catherine relaxed. A curious gleam was seen within her eyes. “Do I worry you, Lady Shamir?”

“Incessantly. Not that you understand that.” The admittance escaped in a rush, whispering from the part of her she loathed. This sentimentality did not become her. Catherine didn’t seem to agree. The Knight’s expression softened, lips curving into something more genuine.

“Maybe not, but I’m trying.” Catherine rubbed her neck thoughtfully. “I won’t give this up simply because you ask me to. However, I won’t tax myself either. I might be impulsive but I’m not completely witless.”

Recent events had called the veracity of that statement into question, but Shamir left it alone. She was tired of arguing and she knew it was likely futile. Catherine was uncommonly stubborn.

“You said I can make my own choices, didn’t you?”

Shamir blinked, momentarily stunned by those words. Her partner appeared to notice this. A single fair brow lifted meaningfully.

“So I am. Without cause or guidance, this is what I want.”

“You’re taking what I said out of context.”

“Am I wrong?” Catherine took a step closer. The distance between them was sparse and Shamir could feel the heat of her proximity. It rolled off the Knight in waves, as if the sun rested just below her skin. A breeze carried the woman’s scent; earthen and woodsy. It filled her head as it always had, making her think of days long gone.

“...Fine. I’ll stop pressing the issue.” Shamir pulled away, hiding her reluctance. She kept her gaze carefully trained upon the distant village. The lights had nearly faded now. Only a couple remained lit. “Try to be mindful, however. And don’t say too much to that smith of yours.”

“What? You think I would confide in _him_?” Catherine chuckled, clearly incredulous. “Weyland is a stickler, an ornery one at that. I’d have more genial conversation at the nearest garrison.”

“Is he really that harsh?” Shamir frowned, concern igniting anew. Sensing this, Catherine waved her hand dismissively.

“He’s just an old codger used to getting his way. Blunt and completely unconcerned with social graces.” The Knight paused, before continuing wryly. “Why? Are you prepared to defend my honor?”

“As if there’s any of that left to save.” The barb flew from her without thought. Shamir stilled, immediately regretting her words. But rather than the expected snit, Catherine merely laughed.

“I don’t know. There may be a thread or two left.” She lapsed into a reflective silence. Then, her throat cleared. “My point stands. I won’t compromise us and I know what I’m capable of. The work may be hard, but it’s the sort I can take pride in.”

Her expression changed, features cast with faint melancholy. Shamir could guess as to where her thoughts drifted. Catherine’s dedication to the Church was well-established and her duty was a thing made of uncompromising faith. It was only natural that her pride as a Knight was deeply ingrained. While they never discussed it, Shamir was certain that feeling eclipsed everything else. Now, bereft of that, Catherine sought a new purpose. If she could find it here, toiling away upon a forge, perhaps…

_Will you finally let her go?_

It was a hope Shamir refused to nurture. But it burrowed in her heart all the same, warm as a kiss shared beneath the stars. Yet it was edged with every rejection felt since.

  
  


* * *

  
  


_It was a rare occurrence to be separated from her partner’s side. Their compatibility was a thing unmatched; peerless to all save for the eldest lot. Trust was needed for a partnership to thrive and both held little else higher in regard. With the war raging in perpetuity, the Archbishop utilized that bond to the fullest. But of late, a curious pattern had emerged._

_Where once she was commanded to Catherine’s side, now the opposite held true. No longer was she sent to tread the Knight’s shadow. Her days were better spent in patrol, or so Seteth insisted. However, those words never sounded natural; as if they were constructed by another party. Shamir had an inkling of who the command truly came from. She was hardly oblivious to the wary stares Gilbert sent nor blind to the whispers that permeated the capitol. Noble and soldier alike eyed her boldly. Four years on and their suspicion had warped into cloud of vitriol. It only took a moment’s eavesdropping to determine the cause._

_ **“She’s from Dagda, correct? Can we really trust a heathen to protect the Archbishop?”** _

_ **“They say she was a mercenary. You know their values. Assuredly, when the coin runs dry she will flock to the enemy.”** _

_ ** “There’s a rumor that she spies for the Empire. After all, didn’t she once serve with them?”** _

_Callous insults to her character, but nothing she hadn’t heard before. Where they had sprung from… that was a different matter. But then, it would not be above the immaculate Lady Rhea to excise a cumbersome obstacle. Shamir wondered whether Gilbert had revealed what he saw that day at Garreg Mach. It could be he was not the only one to notice her treacherous actions. Whatever the truth, it was clear she had earned the Archbishop’s ire. With the woman’s erratic behavior, Shamir was fortunate not to be locked away below Fhirdiad._

_Perhaps Rhea was merely waiting for an excuse. It would explain why Catherine was being distanced from her. If the Archbishop suspected treachery, she wouldn’t want one of her greatest soldiers to be swayed from her side. It was laughable, truthfully. Whatever fondness Catherine held for the Dagdan woman, it was nothing in the face of her devotion._

_ **האמונה שמרה עליה, אבל האהבה כרכה אותה.** _

_She would never choose Shamir. Not for anything. And so she accepted the new events, tending to whatever busywork Rhea assigned. It was accomplished reluctantly and not without resentment, but what else was there for her? Shamir would persevere regardless. However, the forced isolation sat like ice in her chest; cold and suffocating with each day that passed. Though Shamir would never admit it aloud, she missed her partner._

_Then, it happened — a sudden break in the tedium. Catherine stormed through the gates of Fhirdiad, blood-soaked and filled with wroth. Shamir was not there to receive her but fearful ramblings from the servants painted a lurid enough picture. They said the Knight flew into the keep like a madwoman, shouting curses and denying medical treatment._

_The maids collectively grumbled over the apparent uncharacteristic actions, but Shamir knew better. Catherine was quick to anger and her rage cooled just as fast. She was simple in that way. It was better to leave the Knight to simmer when her temper alighted. Yet the mention of a wound gave Shamir pause and she could not stop the well of concern she felt. It was for that reason she abandoned the task Rhea had given and walked to Catherine’s quarters. If the woman wished to imprison her for insubordination after, then so be it._

_Shamir paused at the threshold as she heard her partner’s frustrated grunts. Catherine’s torso was bare, armor and shirt carelessly dropped to the floor. Her back was turned, skin wet with exertion and blood. Shamir narrowed her eyes as she spotted the jagged hole within the woman’s shoulder. Fresh crimson spilled like wine and collected at her waist, soaking her belt-line._

_“Damn it...” Catherine twisted, fiddling with something in her hands. Carefully, Shamir stepped inside and closed the door. The Knight stirred at the sound of the latch, head jerking. “I told you idiots to leave me be! Get out before I cleave you in two.”_

_“Only in two? That’s rather mild. It seems tales of your anger have been exaggerated.” Shamir leaned against the far wall. She eyed the woman’s wound. It did not appear severe by any means but it was high enough to give her pause. An inch more and it would have hit a major artery. Catherine was impulsive but she was not quite so reckless to ignore an archer’s range. Was it merely a lack of awareness? Or had she been taken by surprise? Either possibility was disconcerting. “I vividly remember you threatening to quarter a man once.”_

_Catherine stilled. Then she spun on her heel, features marked with surprise. Shamir did not let her eyes stray, keeping them trained upon her partner’s face._

_“Shamir.” The Knight visibly relaxed. “Thank the Goddess... I was getting tired of those busybodies hounding my door.”_

_“I can see why they might be alarmed. You did leave a sizable trail of blood in the entrance hall.” Shamir stole a glance at the wound. “There a reason you’re avoiding the healers, or is this just your pride forcing you to act like an idiot?”_

_“I’m not in the mood to entertain company, especially when they ask stupid questions.” Catherine paused, wincing. “Sorry, not you. I meant the bishops. They mean well but their badgering grated on my nerves.”_

_“Strange how you’ve yet to chase me from your quarters. Does my presence not chafe as theirs did?”_

_“I’m used to your sharp tongue.” Catherine chuckled, unraveling a roll of bandages with a snap of her wrist. A bottle of presumed concoction was emptied onto its length. Then, she pressed the cloth underneath her arm and began to wrap. “A day I go without your nagging is incredibly rare. It’s almost comforting, in a way.”_

_“Is that so? Then let me nag you further.” Shamir watched as her partner struggled with the bind. Exasperated, she walked over and swatted the bandages from the Knight’s grip. “The wound needs to be sewn first. The arrow was ripped out at an angle so it won’t mend evenly.”_

_“Going to patch me up, partner?” Catherine quirked a brow. A playful smile slid onto her face. “You would make a fine nurse. I wonder if those bishop robes would be more appealing on you...”_

_“Save your breath. You’ll need it for more than hollow flirting in a minute.” Shamir scoffed, fishing out a needle and thread from her belt pouch. “Now stay still and try not to scream.”_

_Catherine opened her mouth, no doubt ready to make a suggestive joke, but she jolted as needle dug into flesh._

_“Son of a whore!” The woman hissed between clenched teeth. “Shit, that went deep.”_

_“Stop your whining. I hardly touched you.” Shamir rolled her eyes, ignoring her partner’s grousing. She dipped the needle, weaving through skin. The woman didn’t flinch away, having enough sense to keep relatively still._

_“I’m the patient. I can whine as loud as I please.” Catherine huffed mightily. For all her bluster, she barely blinked as Shamir pulled the thread tight. “Besides, your bedside manner is terrible. I retract my earlier statement. You would be a shit nurse.”_

_“Your gratitude is sterling as ever.” Shamir sheared the thread’s end and reached for the discarded bandage. “I’m curious how this happened in the first place. Weren’t you assigned to a simple reconnaissance at the border?”_

_“Near Remire, yes. We had rooted a few bandits from the area before settling in an abandoned fortification. All be told, everything was going well.” Blue eyes darkened, clouded with some irksome memory. “We were about to storm the Empire’s encampment, liberating Remire from their influence. The trade route had been guttered and it was the perfect time to strike.”_

_Catherine lifted her head, lips pulled back from her teeth. A rumbling keen burst from her throat. It sounded more animal than woman._

_“She was there, Shamir. The Emperor.”_

_The Dagdan woman paused, fingers frozen against Catherine’s skin. The bandage wrinkled in her grasp. Suddenly, she did not have to wonder at what might have happened. Edelgard was a sore both Rhea and the King nursed fervently. And what Rhea loathed, Catherine naturally followed in turn._

_“I assume you crossed blades.” Shamir continued her wrapping. She observed her partner’s expression discreetly. “Considering you came back alone, that scrap ended in disaster.”_

_“It wasn’t that cut and dry. I had her at my mercy.” A tendon in the Knight’s neck flexed with agitation. “She was alone; vulnerable. Thunderbrand was pointed at her neck and I knew I could have taken her life at any time.”_

_“Then why didn’t you?”_

_“Lady Rhea wants her captured alive. You know that.” Catherine hesitated then, ire evaporating in favor of regret. “But I do wonder what would have happened should I have disobeyed. Had I killed her, the war would be over. Leicester and Faerghus could start rebuilding and a proper ruler could be installed in Adrestia.”_

_“You say this, but I doubt those thoughts hadn’t occurred to you before.” Shamir set the bandage firmly, conscious of Catherine’s hitching breath. She smoothed the fabric in apology. “Yet you stayed your hand and were wounded as a result. So was it mercy or a simple lack of diligence?”_

_“Neither. Well, perhaps the latter,” Catherine admitted. She exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. She was talking in that condescending way of hers and I… I kept thinking of my family; mostly of my father and brother’s last moments. What had they felt? Did the Emperor even hesitate as she gave the order?”_

_“Did you expect an apology?” Shamir countered. Catherine grimaced._

_“No. But I wanted some acknowledgment. I wanted her to feel pain; the same I felt when I heard what had happened. But I knew her death was not mine to claim.” Her eyes fell to the ground. “Shamefully, I struggled with my rage. It distracted me and I allowed myself to be caught unaware. In the next moment, we were beset by cavalry.”_

_“Edelgard isn’t an imbecile. She knows your temper and used it against you.”_

_“Still, I should have known. She had given herself up too easily.” Catherine gripped her knees tight, knuckles pale. “Damn it! I should have knocked her out and tied her down or scouted the area before engaging. Had you been there, I’m sure it would have ended differently.”_

_“I’m touched you think so highly of me.” Shamir drew back but stilled as the seated woman reached out. A calloused palm settled over her own, pressing against a steady heartbeat._

_“Don’t jest. Not now.” Catherine appeared tired then. The corners of her eyes tightened. “You’ve always been one for the details. If you had been with me, I’m sure we would have triumphed.”_

_“Hmm. Maybe so.” Shamir extricated herself gently. Any physical contact with Catherine was bittersweet at best. She did not like the want it inspired within her. The feeling was a weakness she no longer had the patience to entertain. “Regardless, it’s done now. Save that anger of yours for later. I’m sure it won’t be the last opportunity we’ll get.”_

_“And what if it is? What if I botched this war because I allowed her to get into my head?” Catherine leaned forward and rubbed her face. “I don’t think I could face Lady Rhea. Not with this failure hanging over me.”_

_“Idiot. You didn’t fail anyone. The mission was to evaluate the Imperial border and you accomplished that.” Silence ensued as the Knight appeared to consider what was said, but her features remained strained. It was clear Catherine wasn’t going to move from this without struggle. “Doesn’t that Goddess of yours say all things happen for a reason?”_

_“Yes, but—”_

_“Then it’s out of your hands.” Shamir sighed, hating the words coming from her mouth. The Fόdlan faith was exasperating, and it’s insistence on negating personal agency galled her. But Catherine needed the assurance. “Rhea won’t scold you for something beyond your reach. I’m sure Gilbert and Seteth would agree.”_

_Catherine tilted her head before nodding faintly. She collapsed onto the bed, careful not to jostle her shoulder._

_“I suppose you’re right. Stings like hell, but I’ll try not to worry over it.”_

_“Good. I’ll notify Seteth of your condition. Hopefully, he’ll stop sending healers to harass you.” The archer took a step forward but halted as something grabbed the tail of her jacket. She blinked, facing her partner. Catherine’s eyes were lidded. Her exhaustion was evident, seen in the dark shadows that lined her cheek and jaw. She must have ridden for days without end, not stopping to unsheathe the arrow from her flesh._

_“Stay. Just for a bit.” Blue eyes closed as she spoke. “It’s odd, but I do sleep better when you’re near.”_

_Shamir tensed but she did not pull away. Eventually, she relented and sat at the bed’s end. Catherine’s hand fell to her stomach. Her chest rose in an even pattern. Shamir watched her, drinking in the smooth planes of her face. Time crawled, only measured by each languid breath taken._

_Shamir looked away. She bit into her cheek and tasted iron. It troubled her to realize how little it took. One plea and her will was shattered. What else would she do to remain at Catherine’s side? She cared little for the Church’s struggle, but its collapse would almost certainly mean the Knight’s demise. Shamir was uncertain what she would do if that came to pass._

_Perhaps it was better to cut herself free. The thought sat with her but refused to settle. It could not find root within her heart, not with Catherine so very close. Her partner slept on, oblivious to the conflict brewing beneath Shamir’s skin._

_**When it’s time… I don’t know what I will choose.** Her thoughts turned to the man she had loved and the life he had traded for her own. Would it be a betrayal of that gift? To choose this woman destined for death? Shamir couldn’t say. Only when the moment came would she finally know the answer._

_ **אתה יכול להיות המוות שלי, קתרין.**_

  
  


* * *

  
  


“You have been exceptionally quiet, Shay.”

Shamir roused from thought, shifting her focus to Bothild. The nun was in the midst of bundling her supplies. They had completed their daily rounds, most innocuous affairs requiring little fuss. The Dagdan woman pursed her lips and avoided Bothild’s keen eye.

“I didn’t sleep well. It’s nothing to be concerned over.”

“Is that so?” The woman’s weathered features grew thoughtful. “Hmm, poor Cassia has been suffering a similar affliction. I wonder if your mutual insomnia is related.”

“What are you trying to imply?” Shamir stiffened, composure fleeing beneath irritation. The nun was unrepentant. She waved her hand in an airy motion.

“Nothing, dear girl. I just find it rather coincidental.” The older woman raised a hand to the sky. “Might have an hour at best before night falls. We’d best hurry, lest the nocturnal beasties get to hunting.”

Bothild patted their mount with a fond hand. The horse’s ears pinned before it snorted in acquiescence.

“We wouldn’t want poor Rhiannon here to wind up in a wolf’s belly.”

Shamir wrinkled her nose at the name. Seeing this, Bothild raised a brow and smiled.

“Not disposed to that one? How about Maeve then?”

“A name isn’t needed. Once we get to Sreng, I’ll be selling her off.”

“That’s a pity.” The nun’s chest heaved with a labored sigh. Her mouth twisted with disappointment. “'Tis a cruel thing, to take service without giving love in return.”

The scolding hit its mark. Shamir looked away, unnerved by the woman’s words. The barb wounded more than likely intended, but that was her own doing. Her mind had constantly been awash with painful reverie. It was too apt a description, not just of Catherine’s lack of regard but Rhea’s calculated actions.

The woman had used all the faithful. The effects of that manipulation were still deeply felt. If there was any fact Shamir held certain, it was that Rhea had not reciprocated her soldiers’ love. Catherine’s devotion was a thing wasted and unanswered; even at the end. _What was worse_, Shamir thought with disdain, _to love fruitlessly? Or watch another’s love be just as futile?_

Before she could reply, a man scampered out into the streets. His face was blanched, sweat pooling down neck and collar. Relief flooded his features as he spotted them.

“Sister, please!” The man strode over to Bothild and bowed. “I need you to come with me. I… I fear my brother’s wound has gone sour.”

“What? When did this happen?” The nun’s features pulled with shock. “Didn’t I visit your home yestermorn? Your brother said nothing of an injury.”

“He does not keep faith with the Goddess.” Shame and fear crossed the man’s face. “Forgive him, Sister, but he does not trust you. He bid me to say nothing and so I did. But he has taken a turn for the worst. I… I think he is dying.”

“Of all the foolish—” Bothild closed her mouth with a click before taking her supplies in hand. “Very well, lead the way. I’ll not let a man die from lack of common sense.”

Gratitude lit the villager’s face and he headed swiftly to the north. Bothild followed after him, steps long and hurried. Her dedication was admirable, but Shamir questioned the application of it. If a person was too stubborn to seek treatment, why should effort be spared in saving them? Nonetheless, she trailed after the nun silently.

When they arrived, the extent of the damage was bared in full. A man lay upon a stained cot, sleeve rolled to bear a grisly wound. The skin of his left arm was mottled and raised, stained a sickly plum. The rest of his skin was pallid and soaked with sweat. He looked half a corpse already, breaths slow and erratic. Shamir stared at him, reminded of a similar sight. She stirred from the memory as Bothild hissed through her teeth.

“Blasted rot. He must have hidden this for weeks!” The nun bent to his side and opened up her pack. “Shay, I’ll need you to cut away the flesh. There’s no saving the arm.”

“Sister, please, he’s a hunter. Without his arm...” The other man quieted as Bothild cut her eyes to him.

“Had it been a week before or even a day, mayhaps something could have been done.” She retrieved a small saw from her bag and placed it by Shamir’s feet. Scissors and knife quickly followed. “As it is, would be a miracle for him to live. Now help me tourniquet his arm, both of you. He’ll start struggling something fierce in a moment.”

True to Bothild’s prediction, the fallen hunter did not stay unconscious for long. He thrashed and screamed, struggling to escape the saw’s rhythmic bite. His brother held him down fiercely, steadfastly ignoring the wet crunch below. Shamir kept her breathing even, though the smell of blood drenched every pull of air. Her hands were sure as she sliced through the joint of his elbow. Eventually, the blackened limb was taken completely.

After, it was a slow and gradual process of stripping the rotted flesh. Shamir tried not to think of Catherine’s own harrowing ordeal. It was for the best that she had left that day. Hearing her partner’s agony had been torturous enough. She refocused on her task, slipping the knife beneath the purpled sinew. Gradually, spoiled blood gave way in favor of clean. Bothild’s hand hovered behind, glowing faintly with gold. The flesh began to knit with each magical pulse.

Then, at long last, they were done. Shamir let her hands fall. She stared at them, taking in the blood staining her skin. She was barely aware of the man groans and his brother’s sobs of relief. Bothild touched her shoulder. Shamir looked up at the woman, taking in her weary smile.

“Shall we clean up?” Her dark eyes drifted over the men’s heads. “I imagine they’ll want some privacy. We can check on them in a bit.”

“Yes...” Shamir rasped. She blinked and wet her lips. Her throat was uncomfortably dry. Thankfully, Bothild did not comment further. The woman led her outside the home, handing over a damp towel for the archer’s stained fingers. Night had fallen and the sun had traded its seat to the moon. Shamir lifted her head as a cold breeze whispered by. Suddenly, Bothild sat atop a nearby stump. The woman flexed her hands. Wrinkled fingers shook in response.

“An unfortunate fate, that. But he was lucky you were here.” The woman clicked her tongue. “You’re exceptionally quick and efficient. Are you certain you’ve never donned the robes of a healer?”

“No. It wasn’t necessary before.” Shamir thought for a moment. “Everything I do know is from practical experience. Severing a limb… That was something I had never done.”

“Did it trouble you?” Bothild’s stare turned sympathetic. Seeing this, Shamir frowned.

“I wasn’t overcome, if that’s what you mean. I’ve seen worse injuries in my time. However, never from a healer’s eyes.” She looked at her hands once more. They were still pink, flecked with smears of red. “It’s a different thing, trying to save a man’s life rather than take it. But then, I found myself thinking about what might have happened.”

“Had he passed?”

“Not him,” the Dagdan woman uttered simply. She glanced towards the woods. The trees threw ominous shadows along the grass. “You’ve seen Cassia’s leg.”

“Ah.” Bothild’s face lit with comprehension. “I take it something similar occurred.”

“Yes. And it was also similarly preventable.” Shamir crossed her arms tight. “I knew she was ailing and I did what I could. Yet I was not aware of how to properly treat the wound. It soured, just as that hunter’s did.”

She clenched her teeth as that day passed through her mind. She swallowed the memory whole and continued.

“A bishop in Conand was able to save the limb. However, the damage was great; more than Cassia is willing to acknowledge. And I’ve found myself wondering if I could have prevented it had I known what to do.”

“The paths of what might have been are not open to us. I don’t think anyone is privy to such knowledge. Maybe not even the Goddess.” The nun leaned back on the stump. Her stare was assessing. “You love her, don’t you?”

Shamir looked at her, startled. She wanted to deny the assertion, but the day had taxed her defenses. In the end, she said nothing; a damning enough response. Slowly, the older woman nodded.

“I thought as much. That first night left me wondering.” Bothild chuckled faintly. “But for a pair of lovers you seemed far too distant, particularly of late.”

“We’re not anything,” Shamir spoke, curt and bitter. “We were partners in the war but that’s over now. At best, you might consider us friends. Now, that too has grown tenuous.”

“Why is that?”

“Her affection was never meant for me.” She hesitated, uncertain of how much to reveal and what would be appropriate to say. Catherine’s feelings were never spoken aloud and her own musings on them were a thing of conjecture. But Shamir had observed her partner for years — enough to know the desires that lay at the bottom of the Knight’s heart. “For Cassia, love and duty walk hand in hand. There is not one without the other. She pledged her blade to her liege, and with it came an uncommon devotion. I think her love was as much for what they represented as for the person.”

“That is a heavy thing to go against.” The nun cupped her chin, pondering. “She served King Dimitri, correct? From what I heard, he was a handsome man. A king is no paltry rival.”

_Neither is an Archbishop_. Shamir stole another glance towards the trees. Was Catherine at the chapel, waiting for her to return? When they arrived, would her body grow slack with relief and her face break into a smile? Shamir didn’t know but she still yearned to see it.

“She clings to the memory, refusing to let her love go. I fear it, not for myself, but for her.” Her eyes closed. “In Faerghus, I know there’s this persistent belief that the dead have a will of their own. It scares me to think of her taking up arms again; all in the name of a corpse. Worse still, I know she would go gladly.”

“And have you aired these fears of yours?”

Shamir chose not to respond. She fixed her gaze upon the moon and deftly avoided the nun’s inquisitive stare. Bothild said nothing for a time. The older woman’s face was pensive, bundled hair blowing in the wind. Then she stood gradually and pat down her robes. Her expression was wistful.

“It’s a strange thing, healing. Most think a flash of magic and a sip of potion is all it takes.” She fluttered her fingers for emphasis. “Ah, but we know better don’t we? Sometimes you need to cut away the rot before you can mend. It’s a process, you see. And it is often long and painful.”

Her eyes cut to Shamir’s.

“However, you can’t ignore the rot. If you do, it’ll devour everything in its path. So it’s important to not shy from the facts, no matter how fearsome.”

Abruptly, Bothild turned away.

“Speaking of, shall we check on our hunter friend? I’m sure he’s feeling a mite better now that death is no longer knocking.”

Shamir watched on, blinking as the nun reentered the lodge. She frowned after the woman. Still, the archer made no move to do the same. Instead, Shamir stood in the cold northern wind and thought of a story once told to her. That of a man who knew only truth and spoke it without reservation. Perhaps she was not like him as Catherine once claimed, but that did not mean she couldn’t be. _If I tell you these fears of mine, will you show me yours in return?_

It was a dangerous prospect. Catherine did not share her vulnerabilities easily, but if there was a chance… she would be a fool not to try. Shamir looked down at her hands. Healing was rather strange indeed.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The day after, Shamir waited at the edge of the chapel grove. She scanned the tree line, hoping to glimpse fair hair. The sun was sinking in small dips and the scattered threads of sunset weaved through broken clouds. Their shadows sank beneath the forest canopy, requiring the Dagdan woman to squint past each trunk. Her patience was rewarded as pale gold cut through the dark.

Catherine trudged through the wood, halting and not without consistent pause. Her face reflected that, brow deep with a frustrated slant. It was a nearly perfect replica of the image Shamir had pictured. Her partner’s hair was just as mussed, and leaves were woven in between the strands. As Catherine spilled out of the brambles, her severe expression fled. The Knight’s steps lightened and the light consternation vanished under a careless grin. Shamir did not know what caused the change. Nothing exceptional had occurred to warrant such ease. But as Catherine raised a hand in greeting, she dared to venture a guess.

“Were you waiting for me?” The taller woman ambled over, a pronounced limp to her gait. Shamir narrowed her eyes but chose not to comment on the observation.

“I was,” she replied honestly. Catherine drew back, appearing thrown by her candor. The Knight ran a hand through her tousled hair. A few leaves spilled out as she did so.

“Well, that’s a change. Have I finally earned your forgiveness?” She tilted her head as something seemed to occur to her. “Or am I in more trouble?”

“You can rest easy. I didn’t come to scold you.” Shamir found herself wavering, words still upon her tongue. She took in Catherine’s appearance. The woman’s shirt was soaked to the chest, proof of the labor she tossed herself into. Soot painted her forearms and clothing in sporadic bursts. “...You should get clean. You’re a mess.”

“Am I at least a pretty mess?” Catherine tossed her hair again. Shamir’s gaze caught as a lone leaf refused to fall. “Or is my unsightly visage offending the comely maiden?”

“You’re in a jovial mood,” Shamir commented. Her partner blinked at this. Then, she made a faint noise of amusement.

“I suppose I am. It was a good day.” Something dark skittered across her eyes. “Not too many of those recently. And it’s nice to be working towards something greater than myself. With our help, this village might survive the winter.”

“You shouldn’t grow too attached. We’re not staying here for much longer.” The archer frowned, eyeing Catherine warily. “Iron and steel are no substitute for meat and grain. Whatever work you do now may all be for naught when the dregs of winter arrive.”

“I know.” Catherine rubbed her neck, sighing. “Maybe it’s a pointless effort, but it’s still worth a try. Weyland is pretty content with it anyway.”

The Knight paused and glanced down at Shamir.

“What _did _you want to speak about? I doubt you waited for me on a lark.”

“It can wait.” The Dagdan woman hedged. She watched the wind rustle past Catherine’s head, but the stubborn leaf still remained. Without thinking, Shamir plucked it from the wild strands. Blue eyes widened and she regretted the impulsive act. She dropped the leaf and cleared her throat.

“Go wash up and eat. Good day or not, I’m sure the work was tiring.” Shamir twisted on her heel and began to walk to the church. “We can talk in your quarters afterward.”

She did not look to see Catherine’s reaction, but she was certain the woman was puzzled. It was just as well. An unbalanced Catherine would not overthink her words. She wanted the whole truth from her partner. No matter the result. However, that did not stop her from feeling trepidation. There was a reason they never talked about the various things that went unsaid.

Catherine’s loyalty. The past that dogged their steps. The kiss that changed the context of their partnership. All of it was deftly ignored in favor of maintaining a balance. But Shamir knew it was not good or sustainable. If they wanted to move forward, this holding pattern needed to break. Bothild had been right about that much.

At supper, Catherine's eyes settled upon her. The woman’s expression was prying, a small frown accompanying each furtive look. Shamir ignored the Knight, making small talk with their host to compensate. Fortunately, Connla badgered Catherine all throughout the meal. Distracted, the woman laughed at the boy’s exuberant story over some such nonsense. But without fail, Catherine’s stare would fall back to her.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the quietest hour, when the moon reached its zenith, Shamir knocked upon her partner’s door. She waited for a breath, straining to hear over her erratic heartbeat. Then, the knob turned and light flooded the hall. Catherine stood in the threshold, cleaner than before but just as weary. Shamir was tempted to flee then, but the other woman only blinked before retreating.

“Come in. I’m fairly sure the others are asleep.” The Knight rolled her shoulders, striding to the bed. Her spine popped audibly and Catherine groaned. “Damn, I think I threw out my back. It hurts like hell when I stretch.”

“You should rest it.” Shamir frowned. She stepped inside the room, cautious and slow. “Breaking yourself in two over another person’s responsibility is foolish. I’m sure that smith won’t mind a day without you.”

“Will do, Mother.” Catherine scoffed and collapsed on the bed. The wooden legs creaked under her weight. “You really do worry too much. Careful, or you’ll start to look as ancient as Bothild.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” Shamir allowed her attention to shift to their surroundings. The room hadn’t changed much since she vacated it. It was perhaps messier than she would have tolerated, but that was only Catherine’s nature. Her partner was more hurricane than woman at times.

“If it pleases you, go right ahead.” Catherine smiled; a smug thing with glinting teeth. It was a familiar gesture; the same lion’s grin that most of their enemies had faced before Thunderbrand’s cut. “Do you think she’d pull me by the ear? Place me in a corner and ask me to count?”

“You underestimate her. There would be a paddling at least.” Slowly, Shamir’s previous anxiety fled. It was comforting to fall back into the familiar patterns of their relationship, trading banter and barbs in kind. “Although, I do wonder if that would be more reward than punishment.”

The Knight balked.

“Kindly refrain from putting that image in my head.” She wrinkled her nose with a deep grimace. “Is this why you came? To torture me?”

“It’s part of it.” A smile flit across Shamir’s lips, but it faded just as fast. Her levity burned away until only a lump of unease sat in her gut. Unwilling to address the issue just yet, she changed the topic. “Earlier… You were limping heavily. Has your leg been bothering you?”

Catherine stiffened, expression hardening. She averted her gaze to the floor.

“If I say yes, will you insist that I stop?”

“No.” To Shamir’s surprise, it was not a lie. She knew the work meant a great deal to Catherine, even if she didn’t quite understand why. It would be an unkindness to take it from her. “You were right before. It’s your choice and I’ll not intervene.”

“Oh.” Catherine blinked rapidly. Then she sighed, relieved. “I’m glad. In that case, yes. It bothers me constantly. The cold weather isn’t helping, either. On really bad days I can feel the joint locking up.”

“I’ll ask Bothild if there’s something that could help.” Shamir looked at the limb in question. The pant was raised over the skin currently, folded above the spiraling scars. A pang of guilt struck her. It was not a new feeling but one she struggled with regardless. Catherine remained unaware, scratching her cheek thoughtfully.

“Yeah, might be nice. Would make the trip to Weyland’s less of a trial.” She looked up at the ceiling. A curious solemnity stole over the Knight. “...You know, I’m not doing this just for me.”

“Pardon?” Shamir asked, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“This job. I didn’t take it just because I was restless.” Catherine glanced to the side, letting their eyes meet. “I wanted to do something to help you. Something that would earn coin while you kept a roof over our heads.”

“That’s more our host’s doing than mine, Catherine.”

“However you spin it, the facts don’t change.” Conflict raged within blue eyes. The Knight sat up and faced Shamir fully. “You’ve kept us alive and afloat these pasts few months. Truthfully, I felt like a leech; taking what you offered and giving nothing back.”

“That isn’t how I thought of it.” Shamir looked away. “You’re limited in ways that I am not. It made sense to try and make up the difference.”

“Sure and I’m grateful. Still didn’t change how useless I felt.” Catherine grinned, crooked and humorless. “Maybe I wanted to show you I could contribute something on my own and without help. The way things used to be before everything went to shit.”

“Catherine—”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t feel frustrated. And my loitering in the past hasn’t helped anything. That’s what that outburst of yours was about right? Me being unable to let go.” The Knight swallowed thickly. “I don’t want to drag you down, Shamir. And I’m trying to do better.”

“You say that, but how much do you mean it?” The Dagdan woman pursed her lips. She straightened her posture. “Better, but in what way?”

“You know...” Catherine made a vague motion with her hand. “Focusing on the present. Not letting the past wear me down. That sort of thing.”

“Then does that mean you’ll cast aside your vows as a Knight of Seiros?”

“Why would I?” A scowl carved itself across the other woman’s face. “If I did that, I’d be dishonoring the order that I served. Let alone the Archbishop’s memory.”

“Because they’re gone, Catherine. Both of them.” Shamir felt something roil within her chest; an ugly bitterness comprised of envy and love both. “You still can’t see it. I don’t know why I bother.”

“Shamir...” Catherine stood cautiously, gaze searching. “I don’t understand what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me you’ll forget the Church. I want you to say you’ll move on from that day in Fhirdiad. I want you to—”

_ Cut away the rot._ Shamir raised her head, breathing strained and rapid.

“I want you to say you’ll live for yourself and not for a dead woman who never cared for you.”

Outrage blossomed upon Catherine’s features, just a she knew it would. However, Shamir refused to take it back. She stood her ground, even as the Knight stalked over. Catherine’s jaw throbbed angrily.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” Fire burned behind ice, a cold rage that Shamir hadn’t seen from her partner in years. For others, yes, but not for her. It reminded her of the day they met. Strangers in everything save service.

“I know enough, including the things you never bothered to notice.” Shamir lifted her chin, keeping their eyes locked. “Rhea used your faith against you. She forced you to dirty your hands as she refused to do the same. And when you burned a city at her order, did she stop to consider your life at all? No. She left you to die.”

“I was her sword and shield. It was only right I be wielded in whatever manner she pleased.” Catherine’s voice was low and deep, forbidding as her namesake. Shamir sneered in response, undaunted.

“She reduced you to that so you would be malleable. Were you really content being more tool than person?”

“Yes.”

The Dagdan woman stilled, caught off-guard by the simple response. She stared at her partner and became unnerved by the certainty she saw. Catherine’s expression was grave, not a trace of hesitance to be seen.

“I preferred it, in fact. Relished it more than anything.”

“I don’t understand.” Shamir bit her lip and averted her eyes. A hollow feeling curled in her chest. Unbidden, her private thoughts spilled from her mouth. “Did you truly love her that much?”

“What?” Suddenly, Catherine blinked and her features softened with shock. Shamir did not answer. Instead, she backed away and prepared to flee. She had enough humiliation for one night. However, it was not to be. Quickly, Catherine seized her waist and kept her still. Escape prevented, Shamir tried to wrench herself free but her partner’s body was stone. Catherine tightened her hold and forced their eyes to meet again.

“What did you mean by that?” The Knight asked. Her tone was calmer now, completely void of the anger that marred it previously. Shamir pressed her lips together and leaned away. Still, Catherine did not relinquish her grip.

“Shamir?”

“It should be obvious,” The Dagdan woman said stiffly. She looked past Catherine’s ear, jaw locked. The Knight peered at her curiously.

“Explain it anyway.”

“Don’t be dense. You know damn well what I mean.” Shamir huffed, frustration mounting along with reluctance. Musing over her partner’s obsession sickened her. Talking about it was proving far worse. “You did everything for her, including murder your countrymen. If Rhea called, you never failed to heed her order.”

She cut her tongue as she forced out the next words.

“You loved her. More than creed, faith, or obligation; that was what you served with. It was why you ignored her madness. It was why you were willing to die in her name.” Shamir glared at Catherine; accusing. “It was why you pushed me away that night. All for _her_.”

Catherine was silent then. Her brow furrowed as if absorbing everything that was said. Emotionally wrought, Shamir tried to pull away again. She stopped struggling as something cupped her chin. Firmly, Catherine guided the shorter woman to face her.

“You think I loved Lady Rhea?”

“I know you did,” Shamir replied stubbornly. But her confidence waned with each second that passed. Strangely, Catherine did not seem abashed or contrite. Her expression was smooth; unreadable. “Why else would you be so loyal?”

Catherine scoffed at this. A flicker of incredulity passed over blue eyes.

“Need my loyalty be constrained to something so plain?” An emotion that might have been disgust darkened her features. “Has that been the sum of your thoughts on me? That I would serve with pure selfishness in mind?”

“Then you deny it?” Shamir demanded. Her hackles raised as Catherine barked a laugh.

“Love… As if my allegiance could be defined by something so base.” She let her hands fall but did not move away. “You know me better than that, Shamir. How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

“Your actions have never alluded to otherwise.”

“Maybe so.” Catherine stared down at her for a time. Blonde hair fell over her eyes as she exhaled heavily. “Okay. Would you like to hear the truth then?”

“To what?” Shamir eyed her partner, still on edge. Appearing to sense this, Catherine took a step back.

“Why I joined the Knights and why I served Lady Rhea.”

“I already know the story.” Shamir crossed her arms defensively. “You murdered a noble and were implicated in the Tragedy of Duscur. Rhea pardoned you in return for your service.”

“That was only the start of it.” Catherine sank back onto the bed. She rubbed her face wearily. “And far from the whole story. Everyone knows the bits and pieces, but not the complete picture. What I felt. Why I did what I did. However, if you want me to, I would do it now. For you.”

Shamir considered the offer, uncertain. It was a more difficult decision than she had imagined, considering the context had changed. Suddenly, a theory she held as fact had been dashed and a supposed truth was there for the taking. What if Catherine’s story revealed something unpalatable, even for her? What if it was worse than the notion of unrequited love between a subordinate and master? Catherine had already changed the script beyond expectation. It was not a stretch to think of more upheaval. Shamir wavered, caught in her conflicting desires.

As she stood pondering this, it dawned on her. None of this mattered. Not truly. The past was the past and the moments they shared now did not belong in that world. The Catherine she faced was not the same woman. Any mistakes made were a reflection of a person who was long gone. The thought grounded her, calming each raw nerve. She stared into her partner’s face, looking for something. Perhaps a reason to accept. And there, in the quivering set of the Knight’s mouth and the slight tremble of her hands did she find it.

No longer fearing the unknown, Shamir did as was natural and took her place by Catherine’s side.

**Next Chapter: Cold Shut**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello everyone! I hope you all are doing well in these difficult times. I've thrown a bit of a curveball, and I know some of you are likely questioning where I'm going with it. Everything will be revealed in time, but I will say that I think people give Catherine too little credit. While the romantic interpretation of her feelings is valid and a likely intended part of canon Cath, I wanted to give an alternate read on it. I'll elaborate more next time.
> 
> Thank you for your patience and your readership! I would love to hear any thoughts and hopes you guys might have. They really do help a ton. Catch you guys next time~ AdraCat


	11. Cold Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A past is shared in the eve; inglorious and terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my amazing beta, johnxfire!

_As the months passed, Cassandra became a common fixture within the monastery halls. One could find her darkening the cathedral doors, bent over in supplication at the stone feet of the Saints. Other days she was firmly ensconced within the Knight’s Hall, sword clashing against squire and affirmed Ser alike. Her presence was the subject of many a rumor. **A courtship gone awry**, some students speculated in ignorance, **or perhaps a betrothal broken in ill faith.**_

_The whispers were offensive but not unexpected. Gossip was a favored pastime of bored young nobility. She would know, having partaken in the same practice as a student. What else were idle tongues meant to do when not shouting commands across the field? Cassandra could feel their eyes; a constant presence in her periphery. Thankfully, the truth was never spoken and her shame was only a thing known among the monastery staff. She would take baseless speculation over that by a wide margin._

_Of course, she was hardly ignorant of how it must have looked. The heir of House Charon sequestered within the shadows of Garreg Mach, dividing her time between steel and divine inquiry. It was a farce. The sort of ignoble tripe that the opera was so fond of depicting. Cassandra hated it, but this was what her actions had reduced her to. And still, she was no closer to finding an answer than when she started. Perchance Lord Gustave… No. Sir Gilbert, had the right of it. If absolution was what she sought, was her only course to submit her life to the Goddess? He had done so and come out for the better for it, if his words were to be believed._

_Yet even as she pondered this notion, a nagging feeling of disquiet remained. Assuredly, it was only her selfishness. The naive noble who yearned to lead her House and serve in the King’s ranks as Lord. A feckless girl who dreamed of honor and glory above all else. It was not a dignified want, this wish of hers. But Cassandra could not shear it away._

_Still, she knew the point was decidedly moot. Duke Blaiddyd would not show mercy. Not with her actions working in tandem with Duscur deceit. All that was left for her was godly devotion or the headman’s axe. Honor retained or her life. Both would mean the death of who she was. So Cassandra spent her days in hesitation, unwilling to commit to either._

_Then, the balance shifted as an unexpected visitor came to Garreg Mach. She had spotted him waiting by the Reception Hall, head bowed over crossed arms. His garb was weathered, blanched by the sun and fraying at the ends. At first, Cassandra assumed the cloaked gentleman was a merchant of some sort. Patronage from the Archbishop was highly sought; prized as any Lord’s recommendation. But there was a certain familiarity about him she could not shake. Then the man tilted his chin up and shock replaced curiosity._

_“Christophe?” His name burst from her chest in a breathy exhale. Cassandra stepped towards him, not quite trusting her eyes. The young lord blinked at her for a time before breaking into an incredulous grin._

_“Cassandra!” He pulled back the hood to his cloak, revealing his face in full. A long sweep of platinum hair dusted his shoulders. “As I live and breathe… I never thought I’d see you stomping these halls. What’s it been? Five years?”_

_Christophe broke into a chuckle, but the sound was peculiar. It did not resonate as it once did, rolling and blithe. Instead, there was a distinct strain between each lilt. Cassandra paused, inspecting his appearance. Age had carved the youth from his face and replaced it with haggard crevices. But his eyes were still kind. They glittered with the same vivacity she had always envied. She relaxed and stood at his side._

_“Ha! Five years go by and that’s all you can say?” Cassandra smiled, clasping his shoulder with a firm hand. She blinked at the bony edge she found. Christophe had always been a slight fellow, but never without muscle. Had he not been eating? Her smile tightened. “Was it truly that hard to send a letter? If it weren't for your father's assurances I would have thought you were dead."_

_“You can’t do away with me so easily. I’m like a gnat, you see” He shrugged off her hand with a laugh. “You talked with my father? Does this mean I’ve come back to a prospective bride, after all?”_

_“Don’t be a fool. I’d never lower myself to consort with a layabout. Besides, your father hasn’t been the cheeriest of late nor the most verbose. But you can blame yourself for that.” She smirked, ready to ask after his travels, when the reception doors flew open. Seteth and a handful of knights poured out. Curiously, they did not approach. The Archbishop’s seneschal waited, hands folded and expression severe. Christophe’s smile fell._

_“Ah. It appears my request has been accepted.”_

_“Request?” Cassandra’s brow furrowed. Her friend nodded in acknowledgment._

_“To see the Archbishop. I wanted to speak with her about a matter most pressing.”_

_“And what would that be?”_

_Christophe didn’t respond. He merely tilted his head and sent a measured look her way. Behind them, Seteth cleared his throat pointedly. Her friend glanced back before waving a hand in airy acknowledgment._

_“Yes, yes. I’ll be right over.” Christophe sighed. His lips quirked, pulling into a tired half-grin. “I can tell you the details later. Shall we meet by the dock this evening?”_

_“I...” Cassandra hesitated, casting an eye over the armored gathering. She swallowed her unease and nodded. “Fine. However, don’t make me wait too long. I do have better things to do than wait for your tardy ass.”_

_“You do have a way with words don’t you? I missed it.” Her friend burst into a pleasant chuckle. Then he strode to the doors. “Never fear, dear Cassandra. This won’t take long.”_

_She didn’t share his certainty, but didn’t give voice to these thoughts. Her gaze followed the group as they disappeared. Cassandra rubbed her neck, tension replacing any shred of joy. She had often wondered how her friend fared in the years since his departure from Fόdlan. It hadn’t been a lie, what she told him. It was no secret that Lord Gaspard had seethed at his son’s exit from the academy. And later, that anger changed into a dour silence._

_She wondered if Christophe was aware of the tumult he left in his wake. Knowing him, it was unlikely. Sadly, he had always tended towards being flighty and irresponsible. The years that passed were not liable to change this. Cassandra’s hand lowered to clasp her sword hilt. His presence at the monastery made her nervous. What sort of trouble had he gotten wrapped up in to wind up at the Archbishop’s door?_

_Her anxiety carried into the next few hours as she waited. Cassandra stood at the dock, scanning the grounds for any sign of her friend. Yet as the sun dipped below the horizon, he had yet to show himself. Eventually, she retreated into the dining hall. Perhaps he intended to meet her for dinner. However, this proved to be a false assumption. Cassandra eyed the doors, scowling with each bite of her meal. Still, the man had not arrived._

_She was tempted to leave for her quarters. Being punctual had never been a concern of his, but this went beyond the pale. Deciding to grant him some leeway, Cassandra sat atop the dining hall steps. Night had fallen over the monastery, blanketing the area in shadow. The curfew bell had already tolled, and wandering students were heading to their dormitories. Cassandra sighed, staring up at the moon. Feeling frustrated, she finally stood and turned to leave._

_“'Lo! To see her standing there, dripping moonlight from her hair,” a voice called out to her from the dark. She blinked, squinting through the dim light. Christophe strode into view, smiling in his ever irreverent way. He placed a hand to his chest and spoke. “Was she nymph or siren aside? Merely vision of my earnest desire? Would she accept me, reject me, or be my bride? Or is this destined to end in my pyre?”_

_“What nonsense are you spouting now?” Cassandra huffed, unamused by his theatrics. “I’ve been waiting for hours on end. I thought you said it wouldn’t take long!”_

_“It didn’t. The audience with the Archbishop, that is.” Christophe stopped atop the dock planks. He glanced back at her. “Now this is a familiar sight. Didn’t we leave it like this, all those years ago?”_

_“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not in the mood for it.” Cassandra scoffed before heading down the steps. She glared at him heatedly. “What kept you? Did Her Grace require something? Or the seneschal?”_

_“No, nothing like that. Honestly, Cassandra, it was just me scouting the grounds and getting lost in thought. You know how I am.” The man made a flippant gesture. “But never mind this. Come here and let me have a look at you.”_

_“What? Have you gone blind?” She frowned but did as was bid and stepped closer. Then, she stiffened as Christophe took her face into his hands. He leaned closer, green eyes strangely flinty. The man scrutinized her for a prolonged instant._

_“You’re older,” he said after a while. “That’s good. I was afraid… Well, it doesn’t matter. You look good, Cassandra. I mean that.”_

_“Thank you, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose and leaned away. “You’re acting oddly. Has all that traveling left you dull?”_

_"Something like that." Christophe gave a faint noise of amusement. His stare never lessened. It remained prying, as if trying to delve into the heart of her. “I was being quite earnest before. It is wonderful to see you again. Even if the circumstances are far from pleasant.”_

_Cassandra winced._

_“I take it you heard what happened.” She looked away, shifting on her heels. “Did Her Grace tell you, or…?”_

_“She mentioned a few things when asked, but the direction of our talk didn’t leave much room for inquiry.” The man shrugged. “I was able to fill in the blanks on my own. Though I will say that I’m surprised you fled to Garreg Mach. I’ve never known you to run from your problems.”_

_"In truth, I wasn't thinking; just reacting. Like any animal does when afraid.” Cassandra breathed in deeply. She did not like thinking of her prior panic. It was shameful and cowardly. Admitting it to someone she held in high regard was a trial in of itself. Yet Christophe’s face was not marked with contempt or disappointment. She took heart in this. “I was certain my life was forfeit. It still may be, should I step outside the monastery walls.”_

_“I think it’s natural to feel fear. For what it’s worth, I don’t think less of you.” The man offered a consolatory smile. “The Church would say that honor dictates an equal exchange. Never mind the circumstance or the character of the people involved. Does the life of one currish wretch match that of several innocents? You did the right thing, Cassandra. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."_

_“It was wrong of me, Christophe. Even the Archbishop acknowledged that.” She pushed away the memories and cleared her throat. “Enough. I don’t want to discuss this anymore. Why don’t you tell me about your travels? I always wanted to know where you went.”_

_The man arched his brows, clearly not fooled by her avoidance. Yet he did as was asked and began his story. According to him, Christophe had sailed to Brigid first and perused the islands of the archipelago before chartering passage to Dagda. There, he trekked across the strange country and its peculiar cities. To hear him tell it, the Empire’s onslaught had done little to cull their spirit._

_“You would have loved it, Cass. Dagda is a beautiful country filled with beautiful things. The wine is boiled and cleaned of impurities. Their clothing is as colorful as they are practical..." He trailed and looked at her playfully. “And the women are just as comely as any noble lady. Perhaps more so.”_

_“It does sound lovely.” Cassandra chuckled, humoring him. “And where did you head next?”_

_“Morfis, for a time, but they were not particularly welcoming. A rather secretive lot, truth be told. After, I headed to the Almyran shore and spent the rest of my time there.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Just as disposed to warfare as the Dagdans but they have a rustic charm that sets them apart. A truly wonderful place. However, the heat was more than I could stand in the summer.”_

_“I have to say, I’m a little envious. Other than church assignments as a student, I’ve never set foot outside of Faerghus.”_

_“You could.” Christophe’s voice lowered. He eyed her carefully. “Even now you can do as I did and leave for the nearest port.”_

_“I think I’ve ran all I could. If I left now, I'm sure the Grand Duke would be hot on my trail. If not him, then perhaps the Knights of Seiros." Cassandra rubbed her face. "I'm only safe at the behest of Lady Rhea. If I spurn that hospitality, it would be a simple matter to drag me to Fhirdiad."_

_“There are always other options. You don’t need to atone for some perceived misdeed.”_

_“On this again, are you?” She sighed, shoulders shaking with the force of it. “Look, I know you’re just trying to comfort me but it’s unnecessary. Truthfully, I think I’ve always known what I need to do. I just balk in the face of it.”_

_“What would that be, Cassandra?” Her friend’s tone sharpened, cutting away the levity they shared. “Dying to appease Duke Blaiddyd’s thirst for vengeance? All in the name of honor? How archaic.”_

_“I don't care for your tone, nor for what you're trying to imply." The young woman bristled. She adored the man, but this sudden scolding was unwarranted. Christophe pursed his lips, before settling. His voice lost its edge._

_“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you.” The corners of his mouth creased as he swallowed. “But I can't deny my concern. It would be a shame to lose you to something as intangible as pride."_

_“It’s the way of things, Christophe.”_

_“And that’s my point. Don’t you see?” The man moved closer and gestured to the mountains. “I’ve journeyed all across the known world and seen all sorts of things, both great and terrible. Yet nothing filled me with disgust as much as the place I called home. Inequality, oppression, coercion… the world is not lacking in these things, but never with the same severity witnessed here.”_

_“I thought you would have moved on from this.” Cassandra stepped back, unease growing. She did not like the turn this conversation had taken. “Five years and you still can’t let this go. Didn’t you leave to find a supposed answer?”_

_“And I found it. Within each cultural disparity and disparate system. Within the hearts and minds of people our land would consider heathens.” Christophe’s lip curled with contempt. She had never seen him wear such an ugly expression. It was an unnerving change. “They are different from us, but are also good and decent. Nonetheless, our faith would have them damned for rejecting the Goddess’ wisdom. Tossed into the same category as murderers and thieves. How is this fair? How is this the truth of our faith?”_

_His shoulders straightened, eyes bright with fervor._

_“No. I knew this was not righteous. And as I thought on it I realized that **nothing **we believed could be true. Perhaps the Goddess exists, but for Her to mandate these laws and traditions we are beholden to? It’s an absurdity.”_

_“It’s not our place to question the Church’s teachings.” Cassandra’s frown deepened. She eyed him warily as his eyes narrowed._

_“It is more than a role; it is our duty. If not us, then who?” Christophe flung his arms wide in an arc. “Fόdlan is a sham. Oppression made customary. Stagnation prioritized over growth. We who live in this world have the right to request more; for it to be better than what was and has always been. Must we destroy ourselves trying to maintain a broken system? Must we suffer the lash when we ask for mercy?”_

_“Christophe...” She uttered his name numbly, throat painfully dry. Cassandra balled her hands, uncertain and shocked. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”_

_The man leaned in and took her shoulders in hand. His gaze was hard with demand and plea both._

_“I want you to say that you’ve seen it too. I know you have. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here at all.” Christophe squeezed gently. “Church and crown dictated those people die, yet you recognized their innocence. Your only crime was compassion. However, your life is now dashed in the name of petty spite.”_

_“It was murder.”_

_“It was justice,” He denied. “You were heroic. Nobler than all those who obeyed the order to slaughter. You knew it was wrong and you rebelled.”_

_“And where has that rebellion gotten me? Now I hide away in a monastery awaiting judgment.” She shook off his hands, voice raised. “I chose poorly and death is my sentence.”_

_“But it doesn’t have to be. You could choose to reject this fate.” Suddenly, Christophe’s vehemence lessened. “You deserve better, Cassandra. Everyone does. And you can help me give it to them. The poison that blackens our soil just needs to be pulled from the root.”_

_“What do you mean?” She tensed, disquiet shifting into mounting panic. The man before her paused and his face took an unfamiliar cast. He looked like a stranger suddenly and entirely unlike the friend she so dearly cared for._

_“The Church is the source of our ills. The dogma they enforce and the nobility they shield from criticism can’t be denied.” Christophe stared over her shoulder. His focus was clear, directed towards the Central Building. “And at its head is the Archbishop. It is by her order these injustices are carried out. Without her, Fόdlan would be at peace.”_

_“Are you listening to yourself? The Church maintains order—”_

_“It silences dissent but that does not make it disappear.” He took a step towards her. “We saw this during our days at the academy. Bloodied our hands at her behest, and for what? For a supposed Goddess to find us worthy? It’s not right, Cassandra. It never was. But now, we have a chance to change this. We can liberate Fόdlan from the Church’s grip. It would only take one life in exchange.”_

_“I don’t understand.” Cassandra recoiled, heart aching. “You… Are you suggesting assassinating Her Grace?"_

_“She is only one woman, but she holds the reins to three countries. No one should have that much power.” Christophe shook his head. He turned his gaze back to her. “Fόdlan deserves to be rid of her. Tomorrow, I can make that a reality."_

_“You speak of lunacy. Murdering the Archbishop? That’s...” Cassandra wiped her face with a shaky hand. “Why are you telling me this?”_

_“Because I know you, Cassandra.” The man reached for her hand, but she tore herself away. His arms fell limply. “You’re good and kind. Someone like you does not need to be a footnote in history; a tale of humanity traded for false ideals. Come with me. Help me liberate our country.”_

_“You’re asking me to become a traitor. To my home, my faith…” She breathed in, shaken. “You can’t possibly ask this of me.”_

_“I am and I have.” Christophe folded his arms, back straight. His next words were firm in their delivery. “I’ll not stand by as my countrymen are bent and broken beneath the heel of a religious figurehead. I cannot ignore the blood of innocent people being spilled as some are hailed more worthy than others.”_

_“Please, don’t do this!”_

_"It's too late. A plan is already in motion. Tomorrow night, I and several of my men will seize Garreg Mach.” Christophe's face darkened with malice. “The Archbishop will be expecting my arrival, supposedly to negotiate my reentry into the academy. But you could lead the assault. As I attack from within, you could prevent the Knights from intervening. Once she’s dead, it will be a simple matter of ransoming the students. The lords will play nice if their heirs are at risk.”_

_“No.”_

_The man blinked, surprise staining his features. Cassandra locked her jaw before retreating further back._

_“No,” She repeated in a rasp. “I won’t be a part of this. Murder is one thing, but this? I can't abide this. I won't."_

_“They won’t be harmed, Cassandra. I just need collateral as I potentially negotiate a ceasefire.”_

_“I meant all of it.” Her eyes closed reflexively, unable to stomach the sight of him at this moment. “What happened to you? The boy I knew wouldn’t have considered any of this. Yet here you are, plotting sedition and assassination. You call this just?”_

_“I call it necessary.” She heard him gnash his teeth and begin to pace. “Why are you so against this? You’ve seen the inequality among the masses and felt the sting of the Church’s laws. Of all people, you have more to gain than not.”_

_"She gave me sanctuary when she could have handed me over to Duke Blaiddyd. I'll not reward the Archbishop's kindness with betrayal." Cassandra dared to open her eyes. She blinked rapidly as they stung. A knot settled in her throat. "Do what you will. It’s clear I cannot convince you. But I won’t be party to this.”_

_“...Is that your answer then?”_

_“It’s the only one I have to offer you.”_

_Christophe held her gaze for a time. His brows pulled and conflict raged across his face. Then, the anger fled and only sorrow was left._

_“I can't say I didn't expect this," he admitted, soft and slow. "But I had dearly hoped for otherwise.”_

_Christophe smoothed the folds of his coat and turned on his heel._

_“Let this be the last time we meet as friends. Whether you flee or defend your beloved Archbishop, I’ll be there to bear witness. Goodbye, Cassandra.”_

_She remained still as her friend disappeared into the night. Briefly, Cassandra considered calling out to him. She wanted desperately for him to reconsider; to say that this was a tasteless joke and nothing more. However, her tongue stayed inert and the man kept true to his course. Christophe had chosen his path and it was one she could not follow._

_If nothing else, he has been right about one thing. This was the last time they would trade words in peace._

* * *

Catherine blinked, coming back to herself in small increments. The heavy weight of that night still plagued her. His words, her own; all of it had echoed in her mind for years. And all the ways it could have ended, as well. Even now she could still see him stalking away, driven by something she did not understand. Or refused to, rather.

Catherine pushed the notion aside and turned her gaze to the woman next to her. Shamir’s brow was creased with thought. It was clear she was digesting the revealed events.

“...I knew the former heir of Gaspard was a friend of yours,” Shamir said eventually. “But I thought he had been implicated in Duscur, just as you were. That was the rumor back then.”

“The Tragedy was just a convenient scapegoat.” Catherine sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t think you were at the monastery for all this. At least, I don’t remember seeing you there.”

“No. If this took place in the spring, then I was busy dealing with the Western Church. Rhea had me watching their movements for months.” The Dagdan woman pursed her lips, appearing faintly irritated. “None of this was disclosed to me.”

“Lady Rhea did not want the truth spreading. Even among the Knights. I agreed.” Catherine sent her partner a hesitant glance. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t trust you. I did, even in the earlier days of our relationship. But as the months and years passed, I never saw any reason to drag up the past.”

“Did you believe I would think less of you?”

“I...” The Knight paused, considering. “Perhaps a bit. Mostly, I think I just wanted to forget what happened entirely. It wasn’t a pretty thing, what happened next.”

“I assume you warned Rhea of his plans.” Shamir eyed her intently. Her violet gaze was incisive and knowing. “Then he was captured and put to death. Isn’t that how it played out?”

“It would have been simpler if it had.” Catherine chuckled darkly; a humorless thing with bared teeth. “The truth is far more lurid. I knew I could not let him go through with it, but I also did not want him killed for an impulsive mistake. Shamefully, I struggled with how to move forward. I did not want to make the wrong choice as I had on the Rhodos.”

“You hold that moment too deeply.” The shorter woman exhaled and favored her with a long look. “A choice was made and instead of moving forward, you carried it with you like an albatross. You allowed it to weigh you down.”

“I can’t deny that.” Catherine gripped her knees, head bowed. “That day changed everything. I obsessed over what I should have done and despaired at what I chose. Desperate, I wanted a way to correct my mistake. That desire pushed me onward.”

“So you chose Rhea.” Shamir’s tone was blunt as ever, but a bitter tang could be gleaned from her words. Catherine frowned.

“I chose to protect the leader of our faith. Had she been killed, Fόdlan would have erupted into chaos, especially in the wake of Duscur.” The Knight flexed her hands, balling one within a sheet. “I don’t think you understand what Lady Rhea meant to the faithful. She was the Goddess’ mortal voice. Her chosen guide who was meant to lead all Fόdlan nations towards an age of peace.”

“I know very well what you believed her to be.” Shamir’s lips pressed into a hard line, but she did not express any further discontent. “Fine. You went to Rhea. What happened?”

Catherine hesitated, words hovering on her lips. There was a simple answer; direct and relatively easy. It was the same she gave to any prying individual who tried to guess the truth. But it did not paint a complete picture. Even the explanation she had given to the Archbishop had been layered with falsehood. To tell it now, bare and without deception … She huffed, agitated by her reticence.

Suddenly, she felt something touch her thigh. Catherine blinked, attention snared by the hand upon her. She glanced up and met Shamir’s gaze. The other woman had lost her prior severity. Her features were placid now, donning characteristic patience. The Knight calmed, finding strength in her partner’s presence. Then, Catherine took a breath and began again.

* * *

_In the numerous retelling she would give, the story went like this. Cassandra stormed the Archbishop’s chamber at midnight, filled with wroth and noble indignation, and bent her knee before a gilded throne. She exposed all of the treacherous lord’s machinations in the Tragedy of Duscur and revealed his plans to flee. Then, Lady Rhea had given her command of her Knights and with divine blessing, Cassandra pursued her former friend._

_It was a grand story. The likes of which had been twisted to include the tale of Duscur spies and Western Church influence both. But it was a lie; the whole of it. In reality, Cassandra did not storm the Lady’s chamber that night. She waited till the morn, undone by indecision and grief. Sleepless, the disgraced woman walked into the Archbishop's quarters. She was not filled with anything so noble as righteous anger. Instead, only resignation coiled within._

_It did not take much to convince the Archbishop of Christophe's treachery. Her Grace was no ordinary woman. It was long taken as fact that the Goddess granted uncommon wisdom to Her chosen. Rather than skepticism, Lady Rhea embraced the knowledge without further inquiry. Seteth was a bit more agitated in his reaction, but neither showed an ounce of surprise. It made her wonder. Had they already suspected Christophe of treachery? Did they know something Cassandra wasn’t privy to?_

_In that event, it was odd they hadn’t taken action before this. But whatever forces moved the Archbishop was beyond her ken. So Cassandra held her tongue and waited for instruction._

_“The Knights will be mobilized, Your Grace.” Sir Gilbert stood at the ready, straight-backed and calm. She wondered at the content of his thoughts. While they were not particularly close, both Lord Gustave and Lonato had served the crown for years. Certainly, there must have been a camaraderie there. Did he feel trepidation at facing the son of a former comrade? If he did, there was no hint of it upon his stony features. "I will search the grounds. If the beast hides, he will not stay hidden for long.”_

_“I will take a few to blockade the valley. He will not escape with fliers overhead.” Seteth turned to face the Archbishop. The Lady had been mostly silent as they conducted their plans. Her face was smooth, but the crease of her brow suggested contemplation. Abruptly, she addressed Cassandra._

_“You are familiar with the young Gaspard’s character. How do you believe he will respond?”_

_Shocked, it took a minute for the younger woman to gather her thoughts. Cassandra wet her lips, mouth dry from anxiety._

_"I cannot say for certain. It has been many years since we saw each other last." Her eyes fell to her boots. "The Christophe I knew wouldn't have dreamed of doing this. Whether by foreign influence or something greater, his reasons are a mystery to me.”_

_For a moment, she was tempted to reveal what he said that night. The claims her friend had made were not without truth. He had been right, in some ways. Cassandra had seen the disparity between noble and commoner. She had felt the pressure of blooded burden and divine expectation. She had witnessed injustice carried in the name of selfish men._

_Since her academy days and onward, these were not unfamiliar concepts. However, Christophe's methods were extreme and the implications horrifying. Because if he spoke with only the truth, then what did it mean that the Archbishop wished it maintained? No, she could not lay her uncertainty bare. They would think her a sympathizer, or worse. She came back to the present as Lady Rhea spoke._

_“While that may be so, his very nature betrays him. Where might he go in a panic. Who might he turn to.” The Archbishop gestured to the noble. “What he held dear. A man does not change so completely at his core. Surely you, who he kept near enough to entrust his plans, have some notion?”_

_Cassandra pondered this for a time. There weren’t many places Christophe could flock to considering the circumstance. She doubted he would flee. The plans he so proudly disclosed suggested an organized effort. Even if he were truly at its head, the man did not seem ready to abandon everything. At the very least, he would give it a heartfelt attempt._

_Christophe had always been earnest in everything he did. She swallowed, thinking of the numerous places they shared their days. He was not likely to remain within the monastery proper. Negating those options left… Cassandra clenched her teeth._

_“I might have an idea,” She admitted. The Archbishop’s face curved into a regretful smile._

_"I see. Then I trust you to tend to this matter. Avail yourself of my Knights as you please."_

_“Lady Rhea, are you sure this is wise?” Seteth frowned, eyeing Cassandra warily. “The girl is still a fugitive and a known associate of the Gaspard boy. What if she takes this chance to flee?”_

_“Then shall I give her an incentive?” The Archbishop stood from her throne and walked to the noble. Her stare was gentle, but there was something more than kindness as well. It lay within the moss of her iris; sharp and near alien in its feeling of **other**. Unsettled, Cassandra looked away. Was this the difference between those blessed by the Goddess? It must be, she decided, for her to be so cowed with just a look._

_“Should you go and complete this task for me, I will grant you a full pardon.” Lady Rhea’s eyes cut to her seneschal. The man looked primed to complain, but the scolding look gutted his response. Satisfied, the Archbishop changed her attention back to the stunned young woman. "You can return home, no longer in fear of Duke Blaiddyd's retribution. I will make sure he will not raise arms against you. All I ask is that your House swear eternal loyalty to the Church. Then you, the Lord apparent of Charon, will be known as the one who stopped a conspiracy on my life and a true champion of the Goddess.”_

_“That is too generous a reward.” Cassandra drew back. “I do not know if I deserve it, Your Grace. My crime remains.”_

_“Then are you refusing me?”_

_The noble bowed her head, unable to speak. She could not refuse the Archbishop’s order, even if it was dressed as a request. When the Church asked something of you, rejection was tantamount to heresy. If she did not accept, this would only confirm Seteth’s thinly veiled implication. Her position was far too precarious to chance that. However, while she yearned to reclaim her title and honor, did she want it to at the cost of Christophe’s life? It would be more than selfish. Cassandra swallowed her wants and brought her gaze up to meet Lady Rhea._

_“I am willing to do what is needed, but I cannot accept this.” She tensed as the Archbishop’s brow furrowed and hurried to elaborate. “Instead, I ask for leniency. You say I know his character and this is true. To that end, I believe him to be misguided. If I can persuade him to return and submit himself to the Church, I wish for him to be shown mercy.”_

_“You would use my favor to spare his life?” For the first time, a shadow of disappointment appeared on the Archbishop’s face. Cassandra winced, but stood firm. She would not use her friend’s death to absolve herself of sin. What little nobility she retained roiled at the mere thought. “Very well. Withal, if my knights find him first I cannot guarantee his survival. I hope you understand this.”_

_“I realize this, Your Grace.”_

_In all honesty, Cassandra was dubious whether her hunch was correct; and even less certain if she could convince Christophe to surrender. But it was worth a try and she refused to let him go without a struggle. It had been a mistake to let him leave. She would correct that failure by doing what she could now._

_Despite the Archbishop’s generosity, Cassandra denied any aid. She did not require protection and a cluster of armored knights would only serve to draw attention. Christophe was far too clever to take by surprise. She also doubted the man would be amenable if he saw her in the company of Church soldiers. So it was that Cassandra took a horse from the stable and raced outside the monastery walls; alone and only armed to the slightest margin. Even in the worst of moods, she did not think he would harm her. More than anything, temperance had always been the greatest mark of his person._

_She sped down the hillside that led into the mountain valley. The thunder of hooves echoed in her mind, drowning out everything else. Her heart raced, uncertain if she would find the man at all. Perhaps he was already halfway to Adrestia or Leicester. Or maybe he fled across the sea, rallying his fellow conspirators. But as she encroached upon the cluster of trees that served as their haven, she spotted him._

_The crown of his head shone in the sunlight; a beacon of platinum surrounded by green. He was crouched within the grove they often spent their days as they bemoaned their classes and responsibilities in between training sessions. Their professor was a harsh taskmaster and they took every chance they could to sneak from his purview. It got them into trouble more often than not, spurring many a salacious rumor. It was easily ignored considering Cassandra's disgust and Christophe's wicked amusement. Yet it couldn’t be denied that they were close. Where one went, the other quickly followed._

_How had it gotten to this point?_

_Cassandra slid off her mount, focusing on his distant figure. The man was still as she made her approach. It appeared he was alone, but the numerous shadows that darkened this wood made her leery. Yet as she finally stood to his back, there was no metallic gleam seen through the copse. The flutter of leaves was the only movement made. Christophe was resting atop a fallen log, fist balled atop his leg. If he was aware of her presence, the man gave no indicator. She worked her jaw, unsure of what to say at this moment. Then, he spoke._

_“I never understood that poem.” Christophe rose. He did not face her, choosing instead to stare at the tree line. “Do you remember? The one about Sir Garyth.”_

_Cassandra remained quiet, thrown by the non-sequitur. She opened her mouth, but could not find her words. Christophe continued, heedless._

_“He is told early on in his life that love would be his undoing. So he girds himself against all forms of it. He dedicates his life to the crown, only keeping true to his duty. But one night he stumbles upon a lovely maid and in one glimpse falls in love. Alas, he goes to her and they embark on a torrid affair. Unbeknownst to Sir Garyth, the lady’s husband was a lord of great renown and has the knight killed for his folly.” The man laughed brightly. “What nonsense! As if he could have loved her so completely. What could he have possibly known of her? Yet so many of our classmates found that silly story romantic.”_

_“It’s a cautionary tale,” Cassandra responds softly. “To not choose personal desire over duty.”_

_“Aye. I agreed with it then. But it was a child’s acceptance, taken in ignorance and perpetuated by naivete.” Christophe tilted his head to the sky. “I judged the knight unfairly without knowing anything of love and only the slightest taste of duty. Now, I think I have some notion of what he might have felt.”_

_The man moved, facing her slowly. His features were drawn._

_“I shouldn’t have said anything. No, I shouldn’t have spoken to you at all.” His hand slid to the sword at his belt. Cassandra tensed, eyeing him. “But just as Garyth couldn’t turn away, neither could I. Silly of me, isn’t it? Just like him, I knew you would be the death of me, yet...”_

_“Don’t speak of death as if it were a certainty.” She took a cautious step forward. “This doesn’t need to end in blood. Come with me and beg forgiveness from the Archbishop. I don’t know who placed these ideas in your head but you don’t need to die for them.”_

_“You think I was influenced? Is that how you see it?” Christophe scoffed, clearly disappointed. “I have merely allied with like-minded people. I was not coerced or manipulated by any stretch.”_

_“Yet you do not deny this plan not being your own.”_

_“My role was not grand a one. But it did not need to be.” His face pinched, jaw straining. “They revealed nothing I did not already suspect. I recognized that at once.”_

_Suddenly, he unsheathed his blade and swept it in a broad arc. He aimed the steel in her direction._

_“Foolishly, I thought you would see the same. I trusted you, Cassandra. I believed you would eagerly back our cause. Look at what that belief has brought me. Not a friend. Not a woman I once considered family. Instead, I see a beaten dog licking the hand of its abuser.”_

_“That isn’t—” Cassandra cut herself off, choking on the denial. Frustrated, she gathered herself and tried again. “Please, just lay down your sword and ask for forgiveness. Her Grace has said she will show you leniency. All you have to do is come with me.”_

_“Do you really believe that?” He laughed but not in the way she was accustomed. It was a harsh and resentful thing, full of contempt. “She’ll have me killed regardless of whatever bargain you made. The Church does not take prisoners. Execution is the only means they employ.”_

_“You don’t know that! The Archbishop is a fair woman. She will not kill you without just cause.”_

_“Is an attempt on her life not cause enough? Don’t be naive.” The man shook his head before his eyes trailed up the slope. It was clear where his focus lay. “Sadly, it seems I’ve been abandoned. No one suffers a weak link in the chain. I am as good as dead, even if I do not fall here.”_

_“Christophe...” Cassandra stepped closer. She refused to draw the relic at her side, unwilling to fight. “I ask of you again. Please, don’t do this. We can still make this right.”_

_“No. I think not.”_

_Swiftly, the man struck. He lunged for her torso, sword whistling through the air. Cassandra staggered to the side, shocked. Christophe did not relent. He darted after in pursuit, teeth gnashed and eyes bright. In that instant, he was no longer a man. Now, he was an animal; lost within fury and the instinctual need to survive._

_Cassandra avoided his strikes, mindful of her footing. She backpedaled, surprise preventing her from regaining composure. Her hand twitched, eager to draw Thunderbrand. Still, she would not reach for it._

_“Christophe, stop this madness!” Cassandra begged._

_He ignored her plea, arching his blade high for another strike. Thinking quick, Cassandra rushed the man and placed her arms beneath his. They grappled for a time, but she had always had the advantage in strength. She overpowered him with ease, causing him to buckle beneath the force. Deftly, Cassandra knocked the sword from his hands. Christophe stared at her, surprised, before erupting into an aggrieved yell. He tried to reach for her neck, but a well-placed cross knocked him to the earth. There, he tumbled among grass and leaves. Cassandra grasped the fallen blade, panting._

_She watched him crawl to his knees. He spat a glob of dirt and blood onto the ground. Slowly, the man peered up at her. Not chancing another round of retaliation, Cassandra placed the sword to his neck._

_“Stay.” She barked, voice low and hoarse. “Try anything and I’ll take your head. You know I will.”_

_Christophe just looked at her. Sweat draped his brow in a fine sheen and dripped into his eyes. He squinted, bowing his head. A hand swept down to cup his shoulder. She felt a flicker of worry as he favored the limb, but dared not voice her concern. If the fool needed the sense beaten into him, then so be it. She narrowed her eyes as he propped himself up._

_“It’s a shame.” The man wiped his mouth. Blood and spittle smeared across his palm. He looked at the mess dimly. “You have changed, but not for the better."_

_His eyes roamed up her frame before meeting her hard glare._

_“The Cassandra I knew was good and fearless. She was a woman undaunted in the face of change. Yet you’ve traded all of that for divine assurance. Such a waste.”_

_Christophe chuckled dryly, balling his hand. Then, a nasty sneer worked across his mouth._

_“No. The person who stands before me now is no one I recognize. You are a Knight through and through, aren’t you?” The hand at his side slid beneath his vest. “Very well. I name you Ser Cassandra the Coward. May you rot in hell.”_

_A dagger caught the sunlight. The man leaped for her, steel aimed for her neck. There was no time for thought; no room for second-guessing. So, in one instinctual moment, Cassandra pierced her former friend through the chest. The metal sank past leather and was swallowed by flesh. She stared into his face, numb. Green eyes gazed back, neither pained nor filled with ire. Something damp and warm spattered along her wrists. In the next moment, the light faded and his features slackened. Unceremoniously, Christophe slid from the blade and collapsed into a heap._

_She looked at the body, expecting to feel horror or some amount of grief. Yet she felt nothing; just the cold breeze of the mountains and the weight of steel in her hand. Even as she gathered him in her arms and rode back to the monastery, her mind was calm and her chest empty. She watched vacantly as the Knights of Seiros pulled his body from her horse._

_Sir Gilbert nodded to her shortly before taking his leave. Lady Rhea, lit by the sun and garbed in white, approached. The Archbishop placed a gentle hand on her cheek. Cassandra blinked, only vaguely registering it._

_“The Goddess has conferred Her blessing on this day.” She kissed the noble’s brow. Then she whispered, tone even and certain. “You did the right thing.”_

_Later, as Cassandra washed the blood from her hands and face, she considered those words. She stared into the tainted water of her basin. Had it truly been right? How could the Archbishop be so certain? Surely, if Cassandra had been quicker, smarter, braver…he wouldn’t have died. If she had known the correct words to say... She pressed a cleaning rag to her mouth. Then, a choked sob tore from her throat. All the grief and terror she couldn’t feel before rose to the surface. She screamed into the rag, agonizing over her failure._

_As the days passed and the incident was used to fan the flames of Duscur betrayal, Cassandra isolated herself. She took her meals alone and ignored all attempts at conversation. Then, she requested an audience with Lady Rhea once more. This time, she knew exactly what to do. It was clear to her now, more than anything had ever been. Choice had made a mockery of her, but it would no longer._

_From now on, she would place her will in the Goddess’ hands. She did not deserve the freedom life granted. Her mistakes and uncertainty were proof of that. Her body would be commanded by something higher; wholly dedicated to the Church and the Archbishop. Nothing so feeble and ludicrous as personal wants would sway her again. Love. Hate. Desire. Friendship. She required none of it. With the Lady guiding her steps, she was no longer required to think. She would not need to agonize over morality. Only the Goddess and her whims mattered._

_If that meant casting aside all trace of humanity, she would pay that price gladly. Cassandra knelt before the Archbishop and closed her eyes. She felt the press of a blade along her collar, just as she had for her graduation. It was a different ceremony, now. Not a heralding of adulthood; rather, a rebirth. And as the Lady spoke, she heard her bestow a name. A new identity free of sin. Yes, a different woman entirely; one who had never buckled beneath her ideals or clung fruitlessly to the past. She would be a blank sheet with only the Goddess penning her story._

_“Rise, Ser Catherine.”_

* * *

Catherine paused, voice fading. She closed her mouth with a click. Her throat was scratchy, sore from talking without end. But it was pained from other things as well. She hadn’t thought about those days in years. Not willingly and never in the company of someone else. The Knight glanced down at her leg. Shamir had yet to move away and she was grateful for her solid presence. The Dagdan woman hadn’t said a word in quite some time, but she did not lack for attention. Her stare was rapt, violet eyes attentive.

“...After, I renounced my title formally and sent a letter to my father.” Catherine rubbed the bridge of her nose, sighing. “I never heard back from him, nor any of my family, but I didn’t expect to. They didn’t understand and that served me just fine. I didn’t need anything to distract me from my service.”

“You speak of your knighting as if it were a punishment,” Shamir commented at length. Her brows formed a pensive tilt. “Yet you always seemed so prideful. Was it an act?”

“Ha, you give me too much credit.” The Knight chuckled faintly. “Act? No. I’ve always been more arrogant than deserved. But that’s only my upbringing as a spoiled noble. Don’t misunderstand, I took pride in my status as a Knight of Seiros too. However, it was different. There, I had to slowly earn the respect I received. It was not offered to me because of crest or blood.”

She stilled, words drifting. Then, Catherine huffed in reluctance.

“But I suppose I looked at it as a punishment. At least, in the beginning.” She glanced at her partner from the periphery. “I was angry. So much it often felt like I was choking. I threw myself into my duties, thinking I could bury my failure so deep that I might forget.”

“I noticed a bit of that.” Shamir hummed thoughtfully. “I assumed your ire was directed towards me, considering my heritage and history."

“What?” Catherine blinked, honestly surprised. “I thought we discussed this. Sure, I thought you were strange and way too quiet, but I never hated you. Truthfully I—”

_I thought you were beautiful. _She bit her tongue, culling the words. The Knight cleared her throat quickly.

“Anyway, that was never the case. Do you doubt me?”

“No. And I had long since discarded that notion.” The other woman crossed her knees, raising a hand beneath her chin. “I’m just remarking on how obvious it was. Of course, I never suspected your loathing to be self-directed.”

“It was for who I was, not for who I became.” Catherine frowned. “Christophe had been right. Cassandra was a coward, and I don't take joy in remembering the things I did under that name.”

“I think it’s strange how you can neatly separate who you used to be from the present. As if she never existed at all." Shamir offered her a dissecting stare. "They still happened and while you are different now, it does not make those events disappear.”

“I had to rid myself of her so I could move on." The Knight straightened, fingers gripping her knee. “That was the purpose of my knighthood. I cast aside everything I was to become Ser Catherine. Lady Rhea gave me more than a second chance. She blessed me with a new beginning.”

“And is that where your loyalty comes from? Mere gratitude?" Shamir scoffed, clearly unconvinced. Catherine looked at her askance.

“It was no _trifling_ thing she gifted me. I was despondent and aimless; my life forfeit by any definition. I could not find the solution I sought, whether from the Goddess or within myself. I was lost, Shamir, and she was my guide.”

“And yet you claim not to love her.” The shorter woman’s gaze thinned. Her lip pressed into a tight line. “Is this response not an outpouring of your passion? Is your fervor not proof of this love you so firmly deny? As I see it, this is just another lie you tell yourself so you do not have to face the truth.”

“I know my feelings, Shamir." Catherine faced her fully. Their legs met, and a violet stare flicked down at the touch. She continued, keeping her cadence measured. "You say I loved her and I did. But not in the way you imply. I loved her as a leader; an everlasting beacon of light and good in this world. I loved her in the way a child loves the comfort of blankets in the dark. I loved her as the voice of my Goddess and the embodiment of Her gifts.”

Catherine hesitated, wondering if she should elaborate. Yet as Shamir looked at her, open and tentative in ways she had never been, the Knight knew what needed to be said.

“I did not love her as a woman, because that was not what I truly saw her as. She was a symbol, an ideal to live up to and serve. But as a person I desired? Never.”

She was tempted to say more, but Catherine did not wish to confuse her partner. While they were one in their wants, she had little to offer; as a friend and even less as a lover. Shamir had not been entirely wrong. She refused her that night in part to the Archbishop’s potential censure, but also her uncertainty.

Catherine had loved before. Softly and purely familial, yet it still fell to ruin. To allow herself to love again in any form… The Knight had been sure it would end in tragedy. She had been forced to choose between duty and affection before. Catherine was no fool. Had she accepted everything her partner offered, she would be no better than Sir Garyth. Perhaps Shamir read those thoughts upon her face in this silent moment. The Dagdan woman sighed, eyes closing in presumed concession. She leaned away.

“I suppose I can understand the difference. Nevertheless, your devotion is the same in practice. It consumed you just as any lovelorn affair.”

“And why shouldn’t it? I was her champion. My sword and body were hers to command.”

“Enough to ignore the blatant abuse of power?” Shamir’s jaw worked noticeably. “Tell me honestly; did you condone her actions? In Fhirdiad, as the city burned, did you tell yourself it was justified?”

Catherine stood, agitated. She crossed her arms and faced the door. The heat of her anger threatened to ignite, but she kept it at bay. Yelling at the other woman would do nothing. More importantly, she knew Shamir did not quite understand her perspective. Only Gilbert faced the same disgrace as she, though the circumstances were dissimilar. Taking a deep breath, Catherine spoke once more.

“I’m not proud of that day. It was terrible; I don’t deny this. I can still taste the ash as everything was swallowed by flame.” She leaned on her heel and chanced a look in Shamir’s direction. “It was my belief in the Goddess and Lady Rhea, that kept my hand steady. My faith in them propelled me onward. 'Lady Rhea is right,' I told myself...”

Catherine swallowed, breaths coming faster.

“She must be right. Everything she does is the will of the Goddess. All this pain and misery, there must have been a reason for it. Just as it was with every uprising we quashed and with each cry of discontent we silenced.” She rubbed her face. Dry lips pulled over her teeth. “She couldn’t have been wrong at any point. All her decisions must have been ordained by something more. If not… If not...”

"Catherine," Shamir called to her quietly. The Knight ignored her, too lost within her turmoil.

“Do you remember when you called her a monster? I felt that accusation viscerally," She admitted. Her words were barely audible now; hoarse and jagged as if they were ripped from her throat. "Because it would mean I, who had followed every command without fail, had dedicated my life to the very thing I wished to avoid. It would mean I killed my friend for nothing. I joined the Knights of Seiros so I would never fail anyone again, that my actions would help this world to become better. So if she was a monster… what does that make me?”

Catherine stilled as something touched her jaw. She blinked and looked down into her partner’s eyes. The woman’s expression was stone, but the look in her eyes was gentle. She swept her hand along the Knight’s cheek.

“I think I see it now,” Shamir said softly. Catherine refrained from interrupting her. She leaned into her partner’s touch. The Dagdan woman spoke again, words sharp but not unkind. “You’re so buried in your shame you can’t see the truth. Rather, you refuse to. You fear the collapse of everything you’ve known, but it’s too late for that.”

A finger traced her cheekbone, light as a feather stroke.

“You called me your Kyphon once. I don’t quite agree, but I’ll be honest with you now. This isn’t really about Rhea or the Church. You’ve always known the right course of action, right from the beginning. You never needed someone to tell you. Whether Christophe, your family, or your faith. It was your fear that defined you and instead of facing it, you let it rot everything you were.”

Catherine swallowed, unable to deny the claim. She wanted to pull away but the look in her partner’s eyes stopped her.

“You wanted to be forgiven, even though you didn’t believe you deserved it. And yet, when Rhea pardoned you… You were still not content. But it was never her place. That’s a task only for you. Not Rhea. Not your goddess. Only you.”

Suddenly, Shamir leaned in and kissed her. It was a light press, barely a meeting of lips. Warm and painfully soft. Then, her partner retreated. Catherine stared at the other woman, stunned.

“I’m not asking you to be anything as grand as a Lord or Knight. I’m not asking you to die in my name or anything so maudlin.” Shamir exhaled, pushing a lock of dark hair behind her ear. She searched her partner’s eyes for a prolonged instant. “I’m only asking you to be brave. I want you to face what you’ve done and accept everything you are, Cassandra or Catherine. Because, for all your faults, I do love you.”

The Knight reeled as if struck, breath torn from her.

“Shamir...”

The Dagdan woman raised a brow and pushed away.

“The night’s grown long, so let’s leave it there for today.” She walked to the door without glancing back. “Goodnight, Catherine.”

With those parting words, Shamir disappeared out the door. Dumbfounded, Catherine could only stare after her. A large part of her wanted to give pursuit. However, Shamir’s words echoed in her head and pushed every other thought aside. She touched her lips, fingers trembling, before her hand fell. All the while Catherine's heart raced, galloping to a rhythm she dared not name.

**Next Chapter: Vent**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And now the truth is bared in all its questionable glory. Something I really enjoy in history, or any grand story, is the tendency to conflate details into feats of impossibility. But the truth of the matter is usually far more simple and plain. So I wanted Catherine's story to echo that. Her fight with Christophe couldn't be a clash of titans or a battle of epic proportions. It needed to be ugly and abrupt. From beginning to end, I wanted to portray her service as following this same thread. As for her love in regards to Rhea, this is my read on it. I'm curious to hear any thoughts on how I explained it. Once again, I thank everyone who has been keeping up with this story! Since this chapter and the next were meant to be one chapter (I underestimated how long depicting this would take) the next will continue to feature Catherine's pov. The major Cathmir developments are coming quite soon and I hope you all enjoy where I take them~
> 
> If you have any questions or just want to say hello, you can find me on twitter! Please stay safe and healthy in these difficult times. <3 - AdraCat


	12. Vent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Knight works metal and dreams of fire. The overflow of thought and emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my beta, johnxfire <3

In the first breaths of dawn, when the sun had yet to creep, a metallic echo rang through the forest. The sky was still dim, only awash with shades of purple and blue. And in the center of the woods, a single splash of orange cut through the dark. Two shadows worked tirelessly in tandem. A weave of sparks and smoke wrapped around both, accompanied by a fire's warm glow. The moon lingered within their periphery, watching over each strike of molten iron. Slowly, as metal bent under hammer's might, the scale was sheared away.

Catherine drank in the process, not minding the slick of her brow and the taste of fire upon tongue. Soon, the raw material was shaped into precise form. As another length of iron was plucked from the forge, Weyland motioned her forward. The Knight obeyed, trained now in her employer's silent cues. She hefted her hammer, poised above the two slabs of overlapping metal. Then the face came down in a swift drop.

It had been a surprise, the first time she worked the metal. It was a queer sort of thing, this half state between firm object and liquid give. Weyland had likened it to moving clay, an assertion she found was rather precise. The iron moved in slow bursts and always in pace with each strike. Yet it was not the brute effort she had so hastily assumed. The work required a healthy amount of concentration.

Wander your gaze or hand too far and the piece would be malformed; misshapen proof of haste. To be meticulous and methodical was the key. These were aspects of character Catherine often struggled with, but when surrounded by the heat of the forge she discovered a well of patience. The outside world was nowhere to be found. In here, only fire and metal reigned. However, when the hammer blows stopped and metal cooled, reality trickled back in.

_ “I’m only asking you to be brave.”_

Catherine frowned, hands gripping leather and haft.

“Girl!”

She startled, jerking her head up. Dark eyes glowered at her from a long face. Weyland pursed his lips, mustache bristling.

“Get your head on straight. I’ve been calling you for an age.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that calling me ‘girl’ might not earn my attention?” The Knight huffed. She scratched her jaw and eyed the man. “Say my name and maybe I’ll respond faster.”

“I’ll say your name when you’ve earned it.” The smith snorted before leaning the iron against his workbench. The pieces had cooled and the weld held with the quench. Nonetheless, Weyland’s scowl never lessened. If Catherine had learned anything about the man, it was that he was a stubborn perfectionist. “Until then, I’ll call you as I like. Now, girl, fetch me the file. I have to smooth this down.”

Catherine scowled, lip curling. Still, she knew better than to argue. Any grumble of dissent and he would send her outside of the forge, tending to whatever menial task struck his fancy. She learned that early on when she dared to hark on the uneven floor of his workshop. In response, Weyland had her repack the space with fresh dirt. It was hard and mind-numbing work, made especially difficult by the distance to the nearest stream.

“Here.” The Knight set her hammer aside and brought the file to him. Weyland glanced at her for a moment and bobbed his head once. It was all the gratitude the man could muster, as per his surly nature. Catherine watched as he bent his head, focusing on his task. The file rasped over the iron in long strokes.

"Hmph. I can't believe that fool is making me waste this much iron over a damn wagon," the man grumbled mightily. "He should have known not to haul so much over the hill. Told him as much, but does the boy listen? Idiot."

“I’m surprised you took the job, considering your apparent distaste.” Catherine folded her arms, observing as he cleaned the weld. Weyland snorted mightily.

"I don't have to like the boy. But his family operates the millstone and tends the rye." The smith waved a hand towards the west. "Down that slope and past the stream, where the trees meet the valley. A good few hour's walk, but a brisk ride for those able. They do us a good turn, sharing what they can. It's a pity the lad is a simpleton."

Weyland’s cheeks pulled into a pensive mask.

“Now I have to use the last of my good stock and I won’t be getting more until the thaw. It’ll be a scrape should more things fall apart.”

“Are you that low on ore?” Catherine asked, genuinely concerned. “Don’t you have a supplier? The Gautiers may not deal heavily, but they mine enough to provide the north.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you.” The smith’s dark gaze inspected her for a time. “They got enough, aye, but only for those who can afford it. The great majority is kept to the inner settlements or traded with Itha. This close to Sreng, it would be a waste so they don’t bother.”

“I didn’t realize how overlooked these smaller villages were,” the Knight commented uneasily. Weyland shrugged his reedy shoulders upon seeing Catherine’s downcast expression.

“It’s the same everywhere. I doubt it’ll be any different with a woman Emperor than it was with an untried King.” He shook his head and sucked on his teeth. Then he erupted into a hacking cough before wiping his mouth. “Blasted cold is already burning my lungs… I don’t look forward to this winter. It’ll be hard and lean.”

“Could you ask for a reprieve from the Margrave?”

“The man's had the run of his wits, or so they say. He leaves all lordly matters to his son and_ that_ ponce is running errands down in the south. No more Kingdom matters for Kingdom blood. Now, we wait for a slow end.” The smith grew thoughtful suddenly. He thumbed the ends of his mustache. “A shame Fhirdiad went the way it did. Had a merchant fellow come by every year, but I doubt he'll visit. If he's even alive.”

Catherine averted her eyes. She stared down at her crossed arms, hair falling in her face.

“Yes. A shame.” The Knight pressed her teeth together and swallowed thickly. Suddenly, the previous night came to her._ The press of Shamir's hand upon her leg. A dissecting look made of both compassion and censure. And her words, cutting as they were kind._ A part of her wanted to pretend that conversation never happened, but it was only the lingering threads of her cowardice. Two people she loved had judged her the same. She would not decry the truth they revealed, no matter how ugly.

_Be brave?_ Catherine rubbed her eyes. It was easier spoken than enacted. What did that word truly mean? She had stared into the eyes of death many a time. Fear had no grip on her then. However, when faced with her own actions… she had turned away. There was no excuse she found acceptable. That had been the point, hadn't it? She had been comforted by the Goddess' omniscience and the certainty Lady Rhea held. On her own, she was nothing.

No. That wasn't true. She had become a weapon of others make. And in her willful ignorance, allowed herself to be pointed at the people she once swore to protect. _Nothing_ did not cast the first torch. _Nothing_ did not stand in the streets of Fhirdiad and watch as the horizon was swallowed by flame. Catherine did. At the behest of another, yet it was still her hand and complicit acceptance.

That was the true reason for her turmoil. Loathe as she was to admit it, Lady Rhea's death was the least of her grief. Catherine roiled at this thought. But it refused to leave and buried doubt where unshakable faith once stood. All the while, Shamir's touch lingered like a pleasant ghost. She was unsure of what to make of her partner's admission. Yet the pit in her stomach was not comprised entirely of reticence. She blinked as Weyland cleared his throat. The man was scowl was deeper than before, grizzled face twisted into a sneer.

“I got your attention? Good.” He jerked his head towards the iron length. “Lift this for me and bring it to the anvil. We still have work to do.”

“Right.” Catherine rubbed her neck and sighed. She took the welded piece in hand, conscious of Weyland’s intent gaze.

“You’re a bit dim, but you’ve never been this dozy.” He dragged a hand across the coarse prickle of his scalp. His eyes narrowed. “There something on your mind, girl?”

“No.” She set the iron upon the anvil face, keeping her gaze away from his. Catherine frowned as the man broke into an unimpressed scoff. “Perhaps a bit. Still, it’s nothing that should concern you. I can handle my own problems.”

“I would normally agree. But, when it drags my work down I begin to take issue.” He adjusted his gloves, brow arched pointedly. “Don’t tell me you’re still having woman troubles.”

“I was never having ‘woman troubles’ to begin with.” She shot him an irritated look. “And no. It’s nothing so arbitrary.”

“I don't much care what it is or isn't.” Weyland waved his hand dismissively. "Makes little difference to me. Either you get your act together or I toss you out. It's that simple."

“It won’t happen again.” Catherine leaned on her heel, staring distantly at the glowing embers of the forge. She heard him make a faint grunt before the man ambled near. Then he grabbed his hammer from the bench and wiped his face with a nearby rag.

"I'll hold you to that. I got too much on my plate already and no time to spare for your nonsense. Keep that in mind."

“Noted.” She snorted, waiting dutifully as Weyland began to heat the coals. She watched him work the bellows silently. A question whispered from her mouth, unbidden. “Do you think it’s possible to fully rid yourself of regret?”

The man stilled. To her surprise, he did not immediately answer. His head remained bowed over the forge, hand gripping the bellows. After a long period, he reached for the fire rake beside him and adjusted the coals. Embers arched beneath metal teeth, sending ribbons of orange into the air.

“How do you mean?” Weyland’s response was gruff, whether from derision or something else was unclear. Catherine continued, elaborating on the thought.

“If you had done something truly heinous… would you be able to forgive yourself?” She stared at his back, but it was not him she truly saw. Catherine grit her teeth. “Do you think it would be _right_ to?”

The smith was quiet then, far from the snappish retorts he was prone to. The air was tense from the heat of the forge and the immovable line of his shoulders. After a time, he canted his head and sniffed.

“I don’t pay you to ask inane questions. Pick up the hammer and get back to work.”

Catherine frowned, brows furrowed. The response was typical for him, but it still filled her with disappointment. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, honestly. For him to offer a clear answer? Clearly, that was too much to hope for. The Knight rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh, grasping the hammer once more. For the rest of the day, she kept her mind focused on the physicality of moving metal and not the shadow of a flaming city.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The sky was dim when their work finally finished. A dark layer of clouds hovered in the distance, their approach heralding another bout of cold. Whether they would bring snow or rain had yet to be decided, but from the mist that followed each breath, the former seemed certain. Catherine kept her eyes heavenward as she made her way to the chapel. The weather had been favorable lately but an interminable chill had suffused the air since the month began. The early morning had become a chore to wake in; however, it was the ache in her leg that nagged the most.

The Knight exhaled sharply, the resulting mist sweeping past her cheek. A fierce wind blew past and raked across her nape. Reflexively, she rubbed the skin. Charon’s winters were often biting but she had a feeling the northern blizzards would be a breed apart. It was not an unfair observation to say southern Faerghian’s knew nothing of winter. Perhaps that was where that old Kingdom adage came from. Sow with sun but shape with ice. Harsh climates did make for hardier people.

A sharp pang came from her leg without warning. Catherine winced and stopped to soothe the throbbing limb. The trek was easier than it had been, due to her growing familiarity, but it remained a hard walk. Though, to her pleasant discovery, she did not need to rest half as much as before. Whether that was a direct cause of repeated use or simply a result of eating and sleeping regularly… Well, it was a welcome change regardless.

Catherine blinked as a horn keened. Low and distinct, the sound echoed across the trees. Then, through the dense brambles, a distant gleam caught her eye. Curiosity sparked, she wandered closer. As she squinted past leaf and birch, her eyes landed upon a tide of blackened steel. Imperial soldiers. The camp was not large, but neither was it insignificant. They crowded the bottom of the pass, headed for the Maw's center.

She frowned, jaw clenched. It seemed the young Gautier had finally deigned to mend the bridge. A rather tardy response by all means. Nonetheless, it was better than nothing and the border forts would soon see respite. More importantly, this meant the path to Sreng would be reopened. Catherine stepped away, the information turning wildly in her head. She should have been happy to see this. Wasn't it what they had been waiting for? So why was she filled with anxiety?

The Knight shook her head tearing her eyes away. It wasn't safe to lose herself in thought with a potential enemy so close. The implications of their presence could be mulled over another time. Preferably, when she wasn't in the middle of the woods without a blade. Still, a restless edge crawled under her skin; digging into the heart of her. It followed the woman back to the Chapel, haunting each step.

Yet as her eyes landed upon the lithe form of her partner, the feeling lost its painful bite. Catherine tilted her head, momentarily surprised by the sight before her. Strangely, Shamir decided to forego the robes Bothild lent. She was garbed in her standard fare, save for the jacket. The light cloth had been traded for a proper coat and seemed to be padded with wool. The nun’s doing, assuredly.

The Dagdan woman appeared unaware of her approach, diligently brushing the flank of their horse. The animal raised its head, ears twitching, before snorting once. The animal was not shy in its dislike of her. Catherine ignored the beast and walked to Shamir's side.

“Going somewhere?” She forced a smile, masking her confusion. “Or just off for a ride?”

“Neither.” Shamir’s hand remained in motion. She glanced briefly at the Knight. “Saloma needed a good cleaning. She’s worked hard these past few weeks.”

“Salo…?” Catherine cocked her head, the word sitting oddly on her tongue. A Dagdan name, by her guess. “Wait. You named it?”

“Yes. It was Bothild’s idea, but I found her suggestions unsatisfactory.” A violet stare cut to her. The warning within those eyes was clear. “Do you find fault with this?”

“Of course not. I’m just confused as to_ why_. We’re selling it… Right?”

"Perhaps." Shamir rolled her shoulders mildly and patted the horse's neck. Its ears moved forward in response, tail swishing in a happy rhythm. If a horse could look smug, Catherine was certain this would be it. She huffed before moving closer to her partner.

"Where are the others anyway? Are they inside?"

Shamir paused, ceasing her brush strokes. Her brow wrinkled slightly.

"All of them are, yes." She licked her lips, appearing to consider something. Then she faced the Knight. "We had to retire earlier than usual. Bothild woke with a fever and assumed it would clear itself shortly. It did not."

“Will she be alright?”

"She insists it's a minor cold, but we'll see." The Dagdan woman's cheek flexed. A tell-tale sign of her aggravation. Shamir often affected nonchalance, but she cared more than most. It was something Catherine appreciated, even if her partner would likely deny the claim. "I imagine I'll need to stay and watch her until this illness clears. With luck, she'll be back on her feet before the village needs her."

"And here I thought our fortune was on the upturn," Catherine commented wryly. She turned her gaze to the west, thinking on the encampment she saw. "It seems that Gautier boy has tired of boot-licking and is finally governing the land. I spotted some of his soldiers near the canyon mouth, loaded to the teeth with supplies. No promises, but we may be looking at a quick fix.”

“You saw them? How long ago was this?” Shamir tensed, features alert.

“Recently, just as I was coming back.” Catherine caught the cautious look upon her partner’s face and she hurried to clarify. “They didn’t see me. I’m confident in this. Thankfully, they’re not heading towards Culann. At least, they don’t appear to be.”

“Hm.” The archer gnawed on her bottom lip. Her brow slanted thoughtfully. “That’s a small mercy and not one we can take for fact. It might be safer to scout their movements.”

“Now?” Catherine’s expression fell. “Surely it can wait until the morning. They’ve already set camp for the night. I doubt they’ll leave.”

“And once I’m certain of this, I’ll let the matter rest.” Shamir leaned away and offered the taller woman a speculative glance. “Unless you take exception with me leaving.”

“I...” The Knight trailed, words failing. She stared into her partner's eyes, uncertain of how to voice her disquiet. It was a mix of things, in truth. Her earlier restlessness at the sight of those imperial troops, the guilt and shame she was just beginning to acknowledge. And at the head was Shamir's heartfelt admission. Catherine knew there was yet more to unearth between them, and she had hoped to glean the nature of her partner's feelings. Love was no pithy thing to declare, least of all from a woman so reticent with her emotions. But if Shamir truly felt as she assumed, what would that mean for them?

At the Knight’s core, beyond the scope of past shame and disgrace, was a woman who wanted to accept those words of love. In theory, it should have been the easiest thing in the world. Shamir was lovely as she was fierce. A clever tongue was the smallest of her many virtues, and it would hardly be a burden to take her to bed. There had been many times where Catherine considered deepening their partnership. It was only her fears that kept these musings from coming to light. As a Knight of Seiros, to choose anything over her divine calling meant sacrilege. However, Catherine was not a woman inclined towards half-measures. If she loved, it would be with all her heart. And she knew, perhaps from the first words they shared, that Shamir could be the ruin of her.

_What should I tell you?_ Catherine swallowed, throat tight. _That I don’t want you to go? That I want you to stay? _She took in her partner’s features, noting the graceful curve of her throat and the generous swell of her chest. It would have been easy to embrace this yearning, to steal a kiss just as Shamir had the night before. Desire was not an aspect their relationship lacked. Yet the Knight wondered if she had any right to accept it.

_In what way would I mean that plea? As the partner I’ve always been or as the lover you deserve?_

Catherine cleared her throat and chuckled hoarsely.

“No. You’re right.” She ran a hand through her hair, avoiding prying violet. “I’m just worried. I don’t like the thought of you going alone.”

“I’m hardly defenseless,” Shamir scoffed. Despite the curt response, her stare softened. “I’ll be back shortly. I just need to get a feel for their intent. If you’re right, then there won’t be any cause for alarm.”

“Yeah.” Catherine breathed in deeply. She tried to keep her lips molded into a grin, but it proved harder than expected. It felt tight and unwieldy upon her face. “Just...be careful.”

“Am I ever not?” Shamir wrapped the reins around her hand, brow raised. She pulled herself atop the horse in a smooth motion; graceful and effortless. Catherine struggled not to direct her attention to the lean muscle of her partner’s legs, currently resting at her eye-level. “Dinner has already been prepared and the children squared away. Keep an ear out for our host. She may need assistance.”

Catherine nodded, too unsettled to form a proper reply. Then, Shamir took off at a canter. Her shadow blended with the fading light of day before vanishing within the copse. The Knight curled her fingers, staring after the other woman. Not for the first time, she wished her leg was whole. Not out of wistful selfishness, but so she could provide protection. Shamir was fast and sly, but a contingent of heavily armored men was nothing to sneer at. If the woman was captured or worse–

Her lips rose over her teeth, an instinctive wroth bubbling to the surface. Perhaps the Knight was uncertain about the exact nature of her feelings, but she knew the strength of them. She would not abide any harm done to the other woman, imperial retaliation be damned. Catherine strode to the chapel doors, mood black as the darkening sky.

  
  


* * *

_That night, bogged by her worries and restless thoughts, a dream took hold. She knew its nature at once, an uncommon clarity dawning. Yet she could do nothing with this knowledge. Her body felt leaden, yet soft all the same, as if made from tin or glass rather than bone. And like a fragile doll, she was carried through motions beyond her control._

_A torch was thrown high atop a thatch roof, material catching into a violent blaze. Then, she saw a vision of herself clasping an iron sword. The blade was limp at first before she thrust it easily through an unarmored chest. Eyes met her own. Green at the start, then changing to every color besides. All of the countless lives torn beneath her blade. Persons unknown but their crimes certain, or so she had thought. It changed again, shifting to a moment with Thunderbrand in her arms, pointed towards a head crowned with gold. Pride and shame consorted with these images; a dichotomy she could not explain._

_Soon, she was left standing in a field; the place where a man who believed in change had met his end. But it was not the same as remembered. The world was on fire, the heat of it felt from afar. She was fighting someone, their figure obscured. Yet there was a sense of familiarity to their face – within the line of their mouth and in the hollow of their cheeks. She rushed them, legs firm beneath her._

_The disability which ruled her waking life was nowhere to be found, and she reveled in this realization. The Knight, for that was the essence of who Catherine was, arched her sword high. She brought it down in a cleave, but her opponent evaded with ease. They were wily and quick, weaving through fire and grass with measured steps. And for reasons unfathomable, this caused her ire to spark anew._

_Catherine moved in a flurry, chasing after the figure with single-minded purpose. She felt Thunderbrand ignite within her hands, red glow dancing with the surrounding flames. Suddenly, the person hesitated and she seized her chance. The Knight ducked low and used her momentum to force them to the ground. They collapsed against each other, armor pressed against leather. Catherine smiled, victorious, eyes moving to meet her foe’s. And as she did, somber violet peered up from beneath dark hair._

_Her feral grin faded and the rush she felt slipped away. She opened her mouth but the air was thick and she could not fill her lungs. Catherine tried to raise herself on her hands, scrambling for a hold in the grass. Her nails dragged across scorched cobble instead. Her palms burned and she looked up to see the shadow of wings. A great roar reverberated through the field, twisted now into the courtyard where she made her final stand. The ghastly howl shook her to the core and she trembled beneath its weight._

_Catherine tried to stand, to **flee**, but a firm grip around her collar kept her still. She felt a hand trace up her neck before tangling in her hair. She looked down and took in her partner’s face. Shamir did not speak but her voice was still heard. Catherine clung to the sound, pulse thrumming as flames arched above them._

_ **Be brave.** _

_Something within her splintered and she pushed the Dagdan woman to the cobble. Shamir’s expression was direct, challenging her to act. With a groan, Catherine seized her partner into a rough kiss. Thunderbrand was cast aside as she traded relic for soft skin. Lips met and held, tongue swiping over the seam of her lips. Painfully familiar and new all at once. Catherine’s fingers sought beneath cloth, straining to feel her partner. She felt an answering touch reach for her as well. Suddenly, her armor was ripped away and bare skin met the air._

_The heat was unbearable, but Shamir was cool to the touch. The woman felt like water beneath her, a counterpart to the iron weight of the Knight’s body. Catherine dove into her partner’s flesh, mouth braced over a fluttering pulse. It moved beneath her tongue like a hammer strike, repeated and constant. She let her hand trail below, searching for the molten heat she knew would be there._

_It was a frantic and odd disconnect she experienced then; a rending of the soul that called to every primal fear she ever felt. And like a beast undone she did as beasts are wont. She ravaged and tore, her touch unkind. Her teeth bit into a pale throat, tongue still savoring each fluttering beat of a heart. Blood filled her mouth, and the part of her that was still aware railed against this. But instead of rejection or spite, Shamir responded in kind. For every savagery, she answered with equal ferocity, and each caress an equal reward._

_There, within this city of ash, they ripped each other apart. Heedless, uncaring. And as Catherine drowned in a river of blood and fire, she became aware of a bystander watching from the shadows. They had the Lady's face, brow decorated with lilies. But their eyes were inhuman; pupils slit like a snake. She gnashed her teeth, rage taking her. Then, unexpected as it was jarring, she felt a touch to her temple. Concerned and long-familiar, it stole her from this savage moment._

Confusion bloomed in her chest and Catherine opened her eyes. A shadow stood above, draping her in darkness. Panicked, she grabbed the figure by the shoulders and tossed them to the bed. She bore down on them, forearm pressed to their throat. A flash of purple winked in the dark, freezing her cold.

“Shamir...?" She blinked at her partner's face. The Dagdan woman was doing the same, lashes fluttering with evident astonishment. Suddenly, her lips tightened into an unamused slant.

“You were thrashing in your sleep and talking nonsense.” She squirmed beneath the Knight, eyes darting to the side. “I was concerned you would wake the others.”

“Oh." Catherine breathed out slowly. Her heart pounded beneath her ribs, still reeling. She noticed their position, aghast at how it mirrored the one they shared in her dream. Unsettled, she shivered and pulled away. She tried not to think of the lingering taste of blood in her mouth. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to wake anyone."

“You didn’t. Not yet.” Shamir appeared to hesitate, considering something unknown. She straightened, but did not rise from the bed. “I was headed for my room when I heard you. I don’t think anyone else was disturbed.”

“Your room?” Catherine frowned. “You weren’t asleep? Don’t tell me you just returned.”

“I was preoccupied. A few soldiers were on patrol and I wanted to make certain they kept their distance.” Shamir pushed back a lock of her hair, expression neutral. “They’re not heavily armed. But I do wonder why there’s so many of them. Mending a bridge should only take a small company.”

“They might fear Sreng intervening. I doubt those savages want the border forts to be resupplied.”

“Maybe.” The Dagdan woman paused, sending a cursory glance in Catherine’s direction. “...What were you dreaming about?”

The Knight drew back instinctively, hands entwined with the sheets. She considered avoiding the question, perhaps laughing the matter away. But the exhaustion in her bones and the acute stare Shamir offered prevented her from doing as such. She opened her mouth, words halting.

“Awful things. Memories of our time in the Knights. Battlefields long gone and people long dead.” Catherine passed a hand over her face. Sweat collected in her palm. “Christophe, and all those I’ve killed since. Then, at the end, I was back in Fhirdiad. But–”

She stopped herself. How could she explain the last part? It was horrific and ugly; lust transformed by anger._ I bit into your skin with the intent to devour. And as long as I could have that, I didn’t care if the world burned. _It disturbed her, what she felt. Catherine did not want to think herself capable of hurting her partner, and never with the inhuman brutality she experienced then. Shamir seemed to notice her conflict. Her analytical stare smoothed.

“You don’t have to continue. I can put together the rest.” She placed her fingers along Catherine’s arm; a consolatory gesture. “I didn’t realize you were still having these dreams. I thought you had moved past them.”

“They don’t come often. Not as they did,” the Knight revealed. She rubbed her neck, trying in vain to disperse the tension. “This one was unlike the others. It felt like more than a dream, almost real.”

“Should I fetch you some water?”

“No. It's fine." Catherine dared to look at the Dagdan woman, forcing a smile. “Give me a chance to breathe and I'll be settled. Although, I don't think I'll be getting any more sleep.”

Shamir stared at her silently. Her face was composed but her brows were curved in thought. She bit her lip, and Catherine was drawn to the bloom of color that appeared in response. Then the woman moved to discard her coat. The Knight balked, eyes widening.

“What…?”

“It’s late and we’re both tired.” Shamir shook out her hair before she plucked at the ties of her clothing. She tripped the leather away, baring the thin undershirt beneath. Pale shoulders gleamed in the dim light and Catherine struggled not to drink in the expanse. “And as I recall, you once said that you slept better when I’m near. Or was that a lie?”

It wasn't, but she hadn't expected that sleepy admittance to be brought back to the fore. Catherine wavered underneath her partner's expectant stare. Sharing a bed was not strange to them and she had wanted Shamir to return to this bed for weeks. But her nerves were raw and that awful dream still lingered unpleasantly. Her will was pulled taut as a wire, fit to snap if treated without caution. She did not know what she would do, both in and out of sleep.

“You sure you want to be around me?” She chuckled but it came out as a rasp. “I can’t promise I won’t thrash and scream. You know how I get.”

“Do you think me so weak that I would begrudge you that?” Shamir flashed a chiding glare. “Am I not beholden to my own decisions?”

“No. I mean, yes—“

“Then don’t ask.” The Dagdan woman gave a short huff before wrapping the sheet above her waist. She set her head against the pillow, eyeing the Knight in a meaningful sweep. “Unless your concern is a smokescreen for something else. Do you fear for your virtue, Ser Knight?”

“Of course not!” Catherine sputtered, heat racing across her cheeks. Shamir looked far from impressed, expression impassive as always. Pride smarting, the taller woman crawled back under the covers. She tried relaxing into the mattress, head turned towards the ceiling. They laid there in silence, hearing the howling wind push against the shutters.

After a time, Catherine chanced a look at her partner. Shamir had shifted to her side, back facing the Knight. Her body was still, but the slightest movement could be seen as she breathed steadily. Then, a howling gust rapped at the window and a breeze whisked into the room. Shamir stiffened, shoulders hunching. It took a moment for Catherine to piece together why.

To her, the bone-sharp cold was a nostalgic ache. However, the Knight knew her partner despised the chill, grumbling each time they were sent to the Kingdom. The chapel was sturdy enough, but a draft was inevitable. Concerned, Catherine moved closer but stopped their bodies from touching. She exhaled in a grunt, conflicted.

“Stop thinking so loud," Shamir spoke abruptly, exasperation clear. "You're keeping me awake."

“Sorry.” Catherine worked her jaw. “I’m just considering something.”

“Well, consider faster. I would like to sleep before sunrise.” Another breeze skittered past and Shamir shook again. She raised the sheet above her shoulders. The motion put to rest any further ambivalence. Catherine wrapped her partner within her arms, drawing the woman near. Shamir stiffened for a time. Then she sighed and leaned into the Knight’s embrace.

“Was this what you were thinking so strongly about?”

“Could be.”

Shamir made a noise, perhaps one of amusement. She turned suddenly but did not break the hold. Catherine swallowed as a hand swept through her hair. Violet eyes glinted knowingly through the dark. It made her wonder what it was that the other woman saw.

“Goodnight, Catherine.” Shamir buried herself closer, face pressed to the Knight’s shoulder. Catherine savored the subtle heat of her partner’s body, roiling thoughts calming to an indistinct murmur. Soon, she leaned her cheek atop silken hair, agitation slipping away in favor of softer feelings.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They did not speak when they woke. There were no questions or implications to consider. Catherine knew now, definitively and without ambiguity, where her partner stood. And she also knew it was not for her to wonder why. Shamir's feelings were her own. It would be pure callousness to dismiss them outright. The Dagdan woman was always confident in her choices. Truthfully, it made her a bit envious.

If she had even an ounce of that certainty, so many things could have been prevented. What to do and what to think; were these things she could not truly answer by herself? As Catherine walked to the workshop, morning chill in her lungs, it bothered her to realize the extent of her failings. Instead of pride in the order she willingly submitted to, she felt irritated at the indecision which led to her service. Where once she burned with gratitude for Her faith, she now only felt resentment – at herself, and other aspects she could not quite admit to yet.

It was something Catherine needed to analyze fully and she owed it to herself to face the answers that arose. She couldn’t stay as she was. Not when that person could still hurt the woman she cared for. For once, the title of Knight sat bitter on her tongue. These musings consumed her until she reached Weyland’s home, negating everything else.

It was only when she entered the workshop and noticed the absence of a certain smith that Catherine focused on the present. She stared at the forge, unlit and cold. Puzzled, she cast a look towards the back of the shop. The tools were still hung and the man’s hammer was conspicuously placed on the bench. Perhaps he was still asleep. Thinking this the likely answer, Catherine turned to leave. A hacking groan stopped her short.

There, in the darkest corner of the shop, was an overturned stool. A pair of legs were tangled with the wood. Shocked, the woman stumbled to the fallen man. Weyland was prostrate on his belly, face tilted downward. She propped his up by his arms, shaking him by the shoulders.

“Weyland! Are you–" Catherine reeled back, struck in the face by an overbearing stench. Stale liquor and vomit soaked his shirt. His face was crusted over with the latter, having slept in the pile of waste. Catherine wrinkled her nose, worry morphing into disgust. She looked down at her feet as her heel slid against a cracked tankard. The man had drank himself into a stupor it seemed.

“Old bastard isn’t half as composed as he pretends.” She sighed and grimaced at him. Work would have to be put on hold until he sobered up. She doubted he would be in much of a mood for it anyway, considering his present state. Catherine stood, hefting the man over her shoulder. He was a slight fellow, lean with muscle from his craft, but the weight was still a chore on her leg. She rolled him into a firm grip before limping over to his lodge. He made a small noise before mumbling to himself.

“...'m sorry. Don't...”

Catherine frowned but chose to ignore the stray murmurs. The man’s demons weren’t any of her business. Fortunately, it was a short distance and the door was already ajar. From the slick remnants of ale on the floor, the man had stumbled from his home before collapsing in his shop. Curiously, the home was sparser than she expected. It was light on furniture, housing only a few items of necessity. She found his bed easy enough, though it was more a nest of blankets than anything else.

Catherine set him down gently, careful to not hit his head. Weyland barely stirred through all of this. She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not. Resigned, the woman took in her surroundings. The home was clean as it was barren, but that wasn’t a surprise. Her employer was meticulous with everything he did. She wandered to the small fireplace, attention caught by the mantle. A few metallic sculptures decorated the space.

They looked to be made of silver, but that couldn’t have been right. Even if Weyland was learned in silversmithing, he would still need ore. From what she had observed, the man could barely get iron let alone anything rare. Catherine took one of the sculptures in hand. It was shaped into the form of a dog, only slightly bigger than her palm. It was highly detailed, especially for something so small. She swept a finger across the flat of its snout. Taking a closer look, the metal was assuredly not silver. Perhaps spelter? She set it back, mindful of the other pieces.

Distantly, Catherine heard Weyland make a pained moan. She glanced behind her, watching as the man struggled to rise. His dark eyes roved, bleary and red-rimmed, before landing on her. Cracked lips twisted into a sneer.

“The hell are _you_ doing here?” He grimaced and rubbed his eyes. “Goddess' tits... My aching head! Did you hit me with a hammer, you clumsy oaf?!”

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Catherine scoffed, indignant. “The only thing I did was drag your ass inside after you drank yourself stupid. I found you collapsed in the shop, covered in your own filth.”

“What?” Weyland squinted. He sniffed before passing a hand across his mouth, breaking the flakes atop his skin. The man gave a fierce grunt. “Hmph. Don’t remember drinking last night.”

“I would be surprise if you can recall anything.”

“I didn’t ask for any smart comments. Or your help, for that matter.” He leaned on his elbows, face paling. He looked fit to be sick again but the smith held a hand up as she stepped forward. “Stay there. I just need everything to stay where it is... Fucking room is spinning.”

“You want a bucket?” Catherine asked, eyeing him warily. Weyland laid back down, apparently done with trying to stand. He draped an arm over his face.

“Nay. I just need to sleep this off.” He cracked open an eye, glancing dismissively at her. “You can go. I’ll not be getting any work done like this.”

“I thought we needed to finish the hinges for the wagon.” She tilted her head, frowning. “If you need to rest, I’ll take over for the day. I think I can manage the forge.”

“You? The very picture of a green girl?” Weyland barked a wheezing laugh. “No, I think not. Go home to your church and be glad for the break. As for me, I plan to sleep this day away.”

The man dismissed her with an airy wave before turning on his side. He placed a ratty pillow over his head. Catherine blinked at him, annoyed at the rapid disregard and subtle slight. With a low growl, she straightened and stomped out of the cabin. She knew he was right to be dubious. The smith hadn't bothered to explain the craft.

However, unknown to him, she had watched each movement he made. She had observed every shearing blow and each stoke of the coals. She knew what it felt like to quench the iron and bend it to her liking. This was a knowledge gained from practical effort and keen scrutiny both. Catherine was not the empty-headed brute he assumed.

So, rather than head back whence she came, she decided to stay. The former Knight headed into the workshop and ignited the forge. Perhaps the man would be angry at her defiance, but she doubted he would be too displeased. This meant less work for him in the long run. Catherine slipped on her gloves before taking metal and hammer in her grip. As the coals burned, she followed the motions she knew by heart; carved there by repetition and a desire to learn.

Heating the bloom and refining it to wrought. Smiting the result into separate pieces of black. Hands sweating inside the glove and palms near numb from constant vibration. The flush of triumph as metal was moved in the exact way needed. The frustration of things going wrong due to inexperience. For hours she worked in this manner, eyes stinging from smoke and shirt damp from exertion. Her skin felt overheated, even with the surly winds of the north to her back.

It was a relatively small task, forging hinge and bolts. And she learned quickly that swift and hard was not the way to make such delicate items. Weyland had accustomed her to the process of welding, but he had not imparted the finer details. The pressure required to mold was very different from what she was accustomed to. Smaller, more precise strikes superseded sheer power. She nearly botched these attempts more than once. Yet her perseverance prevailed and soon a cluster of newly forged bits littered the workbench. Possibly, enough to start piecing together the miller's wagon.

When the sun began to dip, Catherine finally found the end of her task. She set the hammer aside, wiping her face with a rag. She panted into the cloth, concealing a private smile of excitement. She had done it. Against Weyland's command and of her own volition. A small thing and some would say meaningless, but to her… it felt like a new beginning. This was proof of her desire to learn and the ability to grow. The Knight she had been would not have cared for something so insignificant. And to her astonishment, she discovered the woman she was now pitied the thought.

Catherine had changed. Gradual and sometimes painful; like a hammer chipping away the parts unneeded. She was aware of her faults in a way she never dared to ponder before. And unlike the arrogant lord or fanatical Knight of her past, Catherine wanted to keep changing — to be better than both. She had the choice of it, if she mustered the courage. Her hand curled around the hammer, haft warm from the heat of the forge.

“_Girl!_”

Catherine jumped, caught off guard by the sudden bellow. She whirled around, glimpsing the fuming form of Weyland. The man was stalking towards her, lips contorted into an ugly snarl.

“I told you to go back. Not to manhandle my damn tools!” His dark gaze strayed past her, catching on the roaring fire. The smith’s expression darkened. “You used my forge? My _metal_?!”

“I did the job you were too pissed off your face to do.” Catherine crossed her arms, unwilling to bend. “Took me a lot longer, but I didn’t waste anything. The hinges are made and the bolts are ready.”

“At the expense of _my_ resources and _my_ tools.” Weyland visibly bristled, glowering hotly. “You probably broke something in your incompetence. Idiot girl, I told you to mind your own!”

“And how does this hurt anything? You should be thanking me.” The woman narrowed her eyes, feeling her temper flare. She strode closer, staring him down. “I drag you inside, keeping you from drowning in your own vomit, do a job you couldn’t be arsed to do and you have the gall to yell at me for this?”

“Gall?!” The smith clenched his teeth together. His hands curled at his side. Then, something appeared to occur to him. Weyland’s face twisted before he took a long pull of air. “You want to talk about gall? Fine, girl, let’s speak on that. Everything on this land and in this shop in mine. You don’t have any right to use anything here without my permission.”

“I helped you,” Catherine insisted sharply. The man bared his teeth at her.

“That's how you see it but from my perspective, you've overstepped your bounds." He squared his shoulders, flashing her a tight smile. "Until you learn some respect, you're not welcome back under my employ."

“You’re sending me away?” Catherine took a step back, incredulous. “Winter’s too close at hand and I know you’ll need my arm. You’re being daft.”

“I got on fine without you and I’ll continue to be after you leave.” Weyland jostled past, deliberately knocking her aside. She grit her teeth, yearning to wipe the smug look from his face. “Now get out of here, girl. I won’t say it twice.”

Catherine wanted to argue, to make him understand, but the look on his face was a familiar one. She knew it was the same one she wore on occasion. They were both stubborn to a fault and any complaints would only be met with rejection. Frustrated, she lobbed the hammer across the grass.

“I know why you live out here!” She shouted after him, voice thick with anger. “You’re a bitter drunk who nobody can stand! That’s why you’re alone, isn’t it?!”

Weyland stopped, halting on the steps of his cabin. Then the smith spat in her direction.

“You know nothing, girl. Leave and don’t come back.” He disappeared from view, slamming the door shut. Gritting her teeth, Catherine took her leave. She forced her gaze to stay on the tree line and not at the flimsy door of his home. The temptation to clock him was too overwhelming.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Upon the former Knight's return, she was greeted by the sight of Bothild and her wards. The nun was bundled tight in a wool blanket, her cheeks and nose red. Her eyes were glassy, lacking the distinct acuity they usually held. Connla and Aife were sleeping by her feet, huddled near the fire pit. Bothild looked up as Catherine approached.

“You’ve come back rather early.” The nun set down the book she was reading and offered a wan grin. “Did Weyland give you the rest of the day? Or did something happen?”

“Both,” Catherine admitted. She flexed her hands, still feeling the urge to hit something. “Old fool got it into his head that I was disrespecting him. He cut me loose, presumably to teach me a lesson.”

“Ah...” Bothild interlaced her fingers, relaxing into her chair. “Got into a row, did you? A shame that, but not surprising. Weyland is a hard man with an even harder head. I wouldn’t worry none. Give him some time and he’ll calm.”

“I don’t even understand what set him off.” The younger woman huffed. Her hackles raised at the memory, combined with no small amount of confusion. “I did the damn work, and well too. Yet he gets mad because I failed to ask permission? He’s off his rocker.”

“He’s a fellow set in his ways. Doesn’t like being challenged, neither.” Bothild chuckled, sounding oddly fond. “Let him sleep on it. Weyland might be bull-headed, but he knows a good thing when he sees it. Between you and me, he’s been looking for an apprentice for quite some time.”

“Really?” Catherine thought on that, momentarily distracted from her anger. “He didn’t mention that.”

“Goddess no! That would require vulnerability on his part. And that’s not a thing a man like him displays openly.” The nun wrapped the blanket tighter about herself. She coughed into her hands. “Wretched cold. I might rest some more before dinner. I do feel awful, letting Shay take on the chores in my stead. That’s no way for a host to behave.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind. We’re both glad to be here.” Catherine looked around, searching for her partner. “Speaking of, where_ is_ Shay? She tending to the horse?”

“She was for a time. Great beasts do come with great appetites. The poor thing was only bones when you both arrived.” Bothild’s brows arched in clear censure. “She finished up not too long ago before heading back to her room, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That so?” The former Knight murmured, considering. She took a step in the direction of the living quarters. “I’ll go find her. You should try to rest. Between the two of us, we’ll take care of everything.”

“If you insist.” The nun glanced down at her feet where the children were still sleeping. “Do hurry back soon. I know Connla will be excited to see you. The boy has made a hero of you, it seems.”

“Me?” Catherine blinked, stilling in the doorway. She tossed the notion around in her head, unsure whether she was more bemused or unnerved. It had been years since she’d done anything worthy of awe. Her life was nothing to be proud of and her deeds were horrors still dreamt. Still, it was strange to think of the boy idolizing her. He did not know her as Thunder Catherine, only as the lame-legged Cassia.

“Yes, you.” Bothild chuckled, the sound sounded was interspersed with coughs. “Off with you now. Shay might have need of you.”

Catherine blinked at those words, momentarily thrown. Shamir hardly needed anything from anyone. She was far too independent for that. Was there a hidden message in Bothild’s words that she could not decipher? Somewhat troubled, she headed for her partner’s quarters.

Perhaps the Dagdan woman had injured herself on a ride or had attempted more reconnaissance on the Gautier soldiers. Considering Bothild’s bland response, it was most likely not a grievous injury. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for Shamir to tend to her wounds in private, either. Still, she didn’t like the thought of her partner in pain. Spurred on by this concern, Catherine barged inside.

She stopped at the threshold, struck dumb by the sight of ivory skin. Shamir stood by the window, bare, save for a towel across her neck. She had pressed her face to the cloth, appearing to savor the heat therein. A basin of steaming water was beside her. Catherine took a sharp breath, sound cutting through the air. Shamir pulled her head away, eyes flicking to the still woman.

“Catherine." She pursed her lips but did not stiffen beneath her partner's gaze. A single brow lifted and stayed. "You're making a habit of this. Should I wait to bathe until you're near to save you the trouble?"

“I didn’t realize...” Catherine trailed off, growing increasingly distracted by the bare length of her partner. The gentle slope of her spine was particularly interesting, as was the curve of her waist. She swallowed, tongue thick in her mouth. Eventually, Catherine gathered her wits and turned. “I’ll leave and let you finish."

“That’s polite of you.” Shamir’s tone was faintly mocking. Amusement danced beneath each word. “Also unnecessary. I’m done for the most part.”

“Is that an invite to keep watching?” The former Knight smiled wryly, finding her tongue. Her mind worked better when not faced with her partner’s nudity. The view was fit enough to ruin anyone’s concentration. She heard the Dagdan woman hum, noncommittal.

“That depends. Would you take that offer?” A telling shift of cloth sounded from behind her. For a moment, she envisioned bare flesh being sheathed in soft cotton. Catherine kept her head forward, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “From your history, I think I can reasonably assume so.”

“What happened to saying I 'falter in the face of suggestion'?” She leaned against the door frame, counting the grain striations in the paneling. “Did you change your mind, Lady Shamir?”

“I reconsidered my opinion.” A soft click came; the buckling of a belt. “Though admittedly, I didn’t expect you to return. Not until much later. Did something happen?”

“Nothing I can’t solve on my own.” Catherine winced and stared at her feet. “I might have angered Weyland. So he gave me the boot.”

“You do grate on people unused to your antics.”

“Heh. Are you implying I deserved it?”

“I’m only stating the facts.” She heard the smile in Shamir’s voice. “Do you feel it was earned?”

“I...” Catherine closed her mouth, pondering that for a bit. Then she sighed in defeat. “I don’t know. Maybe I presumed too much. I’ll try to speak to him tomorrow.”

“Hmm." There was a pause before another rasp of cloth came. "Could you pass me the brush? It should be near you."

Catherine craned her head, spotting the object atop the dresser. She grabbed it quickly and faced her partner, deigning to ignore the damp shine of Shamir’s hair and the pretty flush that painted her face. Catherine offered it, palm open.

“Here.” She smiled, ready to tease the Dagdan woman for indolence. However, as her eyes fell upon Shamir, the words fell away. She was struck, then. The sunset burned past the shuttered window, tossing beams of light into the room. They caught and stilled upon her partner, contrasting the dark of her hair. Her eyes were seemingly brighter, a curious amaranthine shade. But it was her smile that Catherine noticed the most; full and wry, as if hiding a secret for two. And from that alone, she felt her heart swell.

_Oh,_ she thought. Their hands touched as Shamir took the brush. A thrill went up her spine. _I love you._

Rather than panic or astonishment, Catherine felt herself calm. She stilled and a peace she thought impossible flooded the core of her. It welled up from within, not as a crack of lightning or a peal of thunder, but as a rain long coming. Suddenly she knew why she had struggled to recognize its face. It was not new knowledge. It had always been there, like a path discovered in a forgotten wood. Well-tread and familiar, just temporarily concealed. But the veil was torn away and clarity forged firm what doubt had fractured. Shamir quirked a brow.

“Something wrong?”

Catherine startled, blinking. She looked at her partner, fully and with every emotion she buried over the years. Catherine took in her partner’s features, finally putting a name to the soft emotion that settled in her bones. Yet instead of the customary fear or uncertainty that followed, there was only warmth. She wanted to sweep the woman in her arms and lay these sentiments bare. She very nearly did. But the time wasn’t quite right and the others in their life needed them. So Catherine merely shook her head and sat on the bed. She hid her shaking hands within the coverlet.

“No. Everything is fine.”

And for once, in well over a decade, she meant it.

**Next Chapter: Recalescence**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey, look at that! We're finally not moving at the speed of molasses! I commend and salute everyone who got this far. Your patience is very appreciated. In all seriousness, I hope everyone is pleased by these events. It's been a journey and a half getting here, but we're finally coming up on the ending Act. There's some stuff here that I hope you guys pick up on and I would love to hear any thoughts you might have! Next time, we're finally coming back to everyone's favorite Dagdan. Thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> Stay safe and healthy ~ AdraCat


	13. Recalescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A woman considers her foreign roots as she tends to those in her care.  
The result of change ignites a spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my wonderful beta, johnxfire <3

In the northern tip of Gautier, the staggered peaks of the Maw rose in a rocky crown. Shadows gathered beneath, making their home in a barren valley. As the sun rose over the eastern horizon, the mountain was wreathed in a halo of gold. The light reflected off slabs of granite and slate, tracing the sedimentary paths in complex patterns. It was hard to imagine a traversable path up the winding cliffs. Yet it was not the impossible task it seemed.

Deep in the valley’s belly, faint movement could be seen. A line of black and silver crawled up the cliff flank, distance likening their visage to ants. And like insects, they swarmed the mountain as if it were a carcass. Numerous and pervasive; they moved and buried deep into the canyon heart. At the base of the mount, a large camp was nestled. Soldiers bustled, armor catching the sunrise. Shamir watched on, concealed by the thicket. She narrowed her eyes.

Their number had grown since the previous day. It was odd, considering the scope of the repair. A small retinue would have been enough to guard the builders as they worked. What was the reason behind this show of force? The warriors of Sreng were hostile and numerous, but they were not unified. Constant in-fighting prevented them from being a serious threat and the Margrave had abused this knowledge to great success. In a direct conflict, they stood little chance against the armed might of the Empire.

Shamir shifted her focus to the mountains. If mending the bridge was not their sole task, she didn't know what it could possibly be. Edelgard was many things, but she wasn't a fool. Even if she sought to bring the Sreng tribes to heel, what would be the benefit? It would not be in her interest to start another conflict within the winter months. She adjusted her gloves idly, focus straying to the caravans. They were covered in tarp, concealing the contents below. A wise decision with the current state of Faerghus. Still, the secretive nature of it all made her wary.

Their presence was suspect, but there was little she could do to suss out answers. At least, not without delving into the heart of the matter. Shamir mulled over the notion for a time. It would not take much. A quick scuffle with an unaware guard and she could walk in unnoticed. However, she wasn’t sure if the risk would be worth it. No whispers had come from the south alluding to a hunt for either of them. She was not ready to relinquish that anonymity to assuage baseless suspicion.

Thoughts sorted, the archer rose to her feet. She whistled sharply. The sound of hooves followed and Saloma plodded into view. The horse shook out her mane, muzzle working from a recent meal. Shamir patted her neck, mind turning to other concerns. The morning was nearing completion and the others were most likely awake. With Bothild’s illness, the children would need tending to. It was a task she didn’t mind, in truth. Yet the circumstances were not ideal. The nun was a strong woman, but her advanced years and frail disposition inspired worry.

Shamir swung herself into the saddle, glancing briefly towards the distant encampment. Then she directed her mount in the direction of Culann. It was a warmer day than usual and she welcomed the small reprieve. Of late, the biting wind had become a persistent nuisance. Yet there were some benefits she had not foreseen. A private smile tilted her lips. The night she had spent tucked in Catherine’s arms would be a fond memory; another patch added to the quilt of her affection. She held it close, daring to think of possibilities long discarded.

Still, her musings were just that, mere flights of fancy. It would be inadvisable to think of them as anything else. She would not make the same mistake of assuming her partner's feelings, nor did she want to reach for too much and come up wanting. If she pressed, Shamir was certain the other woman would fold. But a mere conquering of the body was not what she desired.

_אני לא רוצה להחליף חיים שלמים יחד בתשוקה של לילה אחד._

Patience was the game, for now. Thankfully, she knew how to play that one quite well. Shamir nudged harder into the mare’s flank, keen to return. She arrived in a sedate gallop, glimpsing the fiery curls of Connla in the chapel yard. The boy was diligently piling rocks in a circular pattern. His sister watched on curiously but stilled at the archer’s approach. The girl shrank behind her brother, timid as a shrew, and peeked beneath the strawberry tumble of her hair. Connla perked as Shamir dropped down from her horse.

“Lady Shay!” He stood and brushed away the leaves decorating his pants. “Did you get eggs from the market? Oh! What about grapes? Sister Bothild said she’ll make jam if she could get some.”

“The selection was woefully sparse today." Shamir untied her satchel from the saddle horn. She slung it across her shoulder, favoring the boy with a cursory look. "I'll look for grapes tomorrow, but I think any attempts at jam making should be reserved for when Bothild is well. Wouldn't you agree?"

“Yeah.” Connla visibly deflated. “Sorry, Lady Shay.”

“Don’t apologize for something so small.” Shamir sighed. She was out of practice when dealing with young children. Cyril had matured faster than most and been relatively easy to deal with as a result. The boy idolized the Knights and had taken great pride in his role as her squire.

It was a shame the bulk of his adoration had been focused on a woman who abused it._האם הרועה מטפל בכבשה או רק במה שהם מציעים__? _She pursed her lips, refusing to think of what might have been. “I did manage to procure a few eggs, but it could be the last Culann sees until spring. Wash up and I’ll get them cooked.”

“I can do that!” Connla leapt forward excitably. “C’mon Aife!”

The girl stood, appearing hesitant. She shifted on her feet nervously and shot anxious looks at Shamir’s feet. It took the Dagdan woman a moment to understand the girl’s struggle. She had dropped her doll by the rock pile; a frightfully ugly thing that looked to be made from old scraps. Despite its unfortunate appearance, it was sewn carefully in multiple places. Bothild’s handiwork, Shamir guessed. She bent and took it in hand before gesturing for the girl to take.

Aife just blinked, eyes wide. Shamir quirked a brow at this. _Am I that intimidating?_ She forced her features to soften.

“Go on.” The doll waggled in her hand, straw hair catching the wind. “Do you want your brother to eat all the eggs?”

The girl shook her head rapidly and grasped the doll with quick fingers. Then she scurried up the chapel porch, only tossing a single anxious look over her shoulder. Shamir watched, torn between amusement and exasperation. Still, she couldn’t fault the girl for her concern. She was smart to be wary of strangers, no matter how innocuous they seemed. Perhaps the girl would sense the inherent danger, though she did seem disposed towards Catherine. Her partner was affable in ways Shamir never bothered to feign.

She looked to the woods, taking a moment to think of the Knight’s whereabouts. The woman had left before the sun rose, off to apologize to the smith or so she said. Knowing Catherine, one could only guess at the success of that venture. Shamir wandered inside, headed for Bothild’s quarters. She opened the nun’s door slowly, not wishing to potentially startle the woman.

Bothild was still in bed, eyes closed, covers wrapped around her form. A light sheen of sweat dotted her brow. Shamir frowned at this observation. Fever was not irregular for a cold, but it could prove dangerous if it refused to break. She walked to the basin beside the bed and dunked a rag into the cold water. Bothild stirred at the sound.

“Shay…?” The nun turned her head limply. Her voice creaked like a rusted hinge. “Ah, it _is_ you. Did you have a nice ride?”

“It was fine.” Shamir wrung out the rag and folded it. Then she wiped the sweat from the older woman’s brow. “The air was warmer today. It won’t stay as such for long, but it was nice for a quick jaunt.”

“That’s good. You should enjoy this fair weather while we still have it.” Suddenly, Bothild broke into a coughing fit. Her shoulders shook beneath the sheet. “A terrible time for my body to betray me. There are still things to be done before the first snow hits. And the cobbler's wife, poor dear, she's had a rough go of it these past few months. That child in her belly will come any day now.”

“They can wait until you’re better. If not, they can search for help in Itha.” Shamir paused as the nun’s face pinched. It was clear her blunt words were not well received. She sighed and crossed her arms. “...However, if it’s necessary, I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask.” Bothild relaxed, expression smoothing. “Itha would be a hard journey in winter. Inordinately so during a blizzard. They often strike hard and without warning.”

“As I said, I'll assist within my ability and only if required." The archer kept her wording vague, avoiding the trap of promising things she could not fulfill. If the choice was between a faceless stranger or the nun's well-being, she would decide on the latter easily. "You should concentrate on your own health foremost. The village would suffer far more if their lone healer passes."

“You speak true, but… I cannot stop myself from worrying.”

Shamir wet her lips, words forming upon her tongue, when a distant clamor cut the air. She turned at the sound, noting it came from somewhere outside. It took a moment for the Dagdan woman to place it as the splitting of wood. Then an aggravated yell echoed against the window.

“Ah. It seems Cassia has returned.” Bothild chuckled. She clearing her throat as it devolved into a cough. “And in a snit, by the sounds of it.”

“Weyland must have run her off; the expected outcome when dealing with two stubborn people." Shamir tilted her head, hearing the telltale sound of steel against wood. "We'll have a mountain of lumber by the time she works off that anger."

“You understand her quite well.” Bothild’s wrinkled face pulled into a warm smile. Shamir steadfastly ignored the undercurrent of implication that lay in that observation. She soaked the rag again before placing it across Bothild’s forehead.

“I’ve known her for years. It would be odd if I didn’t.” Her hand stilled as another grunt of frustration pealed. Shamir’s mouth twitched. “When she makes a grand fuss like this, it’s best to let her work through it.”

“I’ll heed your better judgment.” The nun hummed, tone belying her amusement. She settled beneath the sheet and cleared her throat. “I suppose I’ll have to leave everything up to you again. My apologies, Shay.”

“A few chores and minding two children is hardly a burden.” Shamir shook her head and stepped away. “Focus on getting better. I’ll come back once breakfast is made.”

“Yes… Oh, but please cook the eggs hard for Aife, won’t you? She loathes them runny, but won’t whisper a word of complaint should you offer it. On the other hand, Connla is a little glutton. He’ll take anything you prepare.”

“Noted. Should I bring anything for you?”

“It would likely go to waste, I’m afraid.” Bothild closed her eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account. I think I’ll sleep a bit more.”

Shamir looked at her for a time, wondering if she should insist otherwise. But as the older woman’s face grew slack and her breathing deepened, she decided to leave it alone. The nun knew her limits and never said anything she did not mean. Shamir left the room, steps light as she could manage. When the door clicked shut, her features fell into a mask of concern.

If Bothild's condition worsened, there was little they could do to assist. This close to Sreng, the population of Gautier was sparse and widespread. The nearest territory that would hold a clinic was Itha, but Shamir did not want to chance running into imperial forces. She did not know if Duke Blaiddyd would be keen to assist, either. The man had lain low since the Kingdom's collapse and would in all probability not wish to associate with former Church soldiers. His past with Catherine was just another reason not to seek him out.

But what other options did they have if the worst came to pass?

Shamir bit her lip and strode towards the kitchen. There would be time to sort it out later, if need be. In the meantime, she would hope for a swift recovery. As she entered the common room, her eye fell upon the children. Both were sitting patiently at the table, eyes wide as they stared at their impromptu sitter. Connla squirmed in his chair.

“Is… Is Sister Bothild still not feeling well?” He fiddled with his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric. Next to him, Aife was silent. She bowed her head and clutched her doll tight. Sensing their anxiety, Shamir smoothed her countenance. They did not need her concern to bleed into theirs.

“Not at present. We can check on her later when she’s had time to rest.” She retrieved a pan from the hanging rack and slung her satchel onto the counter. Sure fingers sought within the leather and curled around eggshell and wool. “You two soaped yourselves, I trust?”

“We did!” Connla bobbed his head. Hazel eyes beamed eagerly. “You got eggs right? Can I have mine on toast? I saw Cassia do that the other day and I want to try.”

“I suppose I can manage that." Shamir eyed him, palming the eggs. "Still, I would be careful of emulating Cassia's habits. She looks easy to please but she can be surprisingly picky."

“Really?” The boy blinked rapidly. “Oh! I bet it’s ‘cause soldiers need to eat good stuff to fight better. That’s the reason, right?”

“...It’s possible.” The Dagdan woman bit back an amused snort before setting the pan over the metal gates. Then she stooped and lit the bundle of wood below. “Her upbringing had a hand in it as well. She grew up a trifle more privileged than most.”

“Like in a merchant family?”

“Something similar to that, yes.” Shamir watched the children from her periphery, wondering if she should say anything further. “When she was assigned as my partner, I noticed she never touched anything from outside her homeland. Anything unfamiliar or strange and she would send it away without a second thought.”

“That makes sense. Faerghus has the best food.” Connla nodded sagely; a child’s wisdom in all it’s absoluteness. Next to him, Aife sniffed.

“You've never been anywhere else." She muttered softly. The utterance was surprisingly disdainful, considering the girl's usual timidity. Shamir quirked a brow, impressed. Connla shot his sister a baleful glare and pouted.

“Have too! Pa and I went to the King’s city once. They had loads of food there, all kinds.” He turned to Shamir, as if pleading for her to believe him. “I liked most stuff from the Alliance, but everything from Adrestia was too sweet.”

“They seem overly reliant on sugar there. Since Adrestia has a temperate climate, I imagine sugar cane would fare better than either Faerghus or Leicester. Their agriculture also has a lower tax burden than the other Fόdlan countries.” Shamir broke from her musing as she observed the puzzled expressions both children wore. She sighed and cracked the eggs into the pan. “The weather is warmer there so they can grow plenty of sugar.”

“Oh. Okay.” Connla nodded, but his furrowed brow still spoke of befuddlement. “Hey, Lady Shay, I know Cassia is from Faerghus like us but where are _you_ from?”

“What makes you think I’m not from Faerghus?” Shamir stirred the yolks, deliberately avoiding the boy’s eyes. She heard him tap the table with his palms.

“You don’t talk like it’s your home.” He paused, seeming to wait for something. A faint murmur came, and Shamir recognized it as Aife whispering to him. האם העכבר מדבר יותר ממה שחשבו קודם?

“And you speak funny things sometimes. Not really words, but sorta half-words. I’ve never heard anyone talk like that.”

“Hmm. No, perhaps you wouldn’t.” The Dagdan woman stilled, watching as the eggs cooked to a dull yellow. Quickly, she cut a slice of the nearby loaf of sourdough and placed it beside the scramble. “You’re right. I’m not from here.”

“So where’s your home then? Is it Adrestia? You do know a bunch about it.” Another pause. “Wait, no. That doesn’t make sense. You worked for King Dimitri, right?”

“I fought under his banner. And no, I’m not from the Empire. Neither am I from Leicester.”

“You’re not from Fόdlan at all?” He sounded genuinely taken aback. Clearly, the concept never occurred to him as a possibility. Shamir took the pan from the grate, eyes straying to where they sat. Connla’s face was scrunched, surprise painting his visage. Even the girl beside him stared with interest.

“No. I come from a land to the south of Fόdlan, far past the Adrestian Sea.” Shamir doled out the cooked pile of eggs, observing the two of them. Connla dug into his meal with gusto; the expected reaction on his part. Aife moved sedately, nudging the food with great reluctance. Shamir watched the girl quietly. _אכן עכבר זהיר__._ She sat across from her and made of show of tasting the portion on her plate. Hazel eyes thinned before focusing on the eggs. Then, Aife brought a spoonful to her lips. The girl appeared to consider it at length, cheeks working, before another bite was taken.

“Are you from Brigid?” Connla asked, voice obscured by vigorous chewing. He wiped his mouth with a ratty sleeve. “Pa met a Brigid fisherman once! He told him all about it. It sounds like a really neat place.”

“No, I’m not. However, I have been to Brigid.” Shamir switched her gaze to the boy, satisfied his sister would keep eating. “Some parts of it are similar to my homeland, which is more than I can say about Fόdlan.”

“What’s the name of your home anyway?”

“Dagda." She smiled wryly at his blatant confusion. "I doubt you would have heard of it. Faerghus has never dealt with my people to any great extent. We are insular and keep to our own. In fact, we rarely journey outside our lands at all."

“Dagda...” Connla made a face, lingering on the name. “Sounds kinda funny. So if people there don’t travel much, why are you in Faerghus?”

“Con—!” Aife froze, darting a startled glance between her brother and Shamir. The woman folded her fingers beneath her chin.

“As with most things in this world, it began with a war. After it was done, I had little holding me there.” Shamir stared past them, lost in thought. “I wandered for a time, traveling across land and sea. It was only by happenstance that I ended my journey in Fόdlan. As the years passed, I found steady work and somehow found myself staying. That’s the short of it.”

“So that’s how you met Cassia?”

“Correct.”

“Oh...” Connla’s enthusiasm dampened. “I guess that means you’ll leave one day, right?”

Shamir pursed her lips.

“I have no intention of staying in Fόdlan forever. Sreng is just the first step towards that goal.” She polished off her meal and set the plate aside. “Once the bridge is finished, we’ll leave.”

“But you haven't been to Dagda for a long time. That's what you said." The boy plucked at his shirt again. "Since you've been here a while, can't Faerghus be your new home? What about Cassia? Will she go with you?"

Shamir hesitated, unable to give a decisive answer. Ever since Fhirdiad’s fall, she had been reacting more than planning. It was atypical of her, but the circumstances did not allow for otherwise. Here in Culann, she could finally take a moment to ponder the future. And to her chagrin, she had yet to find a plan that would sit well with both her and Catherine. She knew her own wants – to leave this forsaken land and all its silly foibles behind. Yet her partner’s intentions were a mystery.

The woman had made great strides in coming to terms with herself, but was it enough to cut the chain of service that bound her? If she insisted on staying and refused to leave… Shamir bit her cheek, lip curling despite herself. The Dagdan woman wasn’t sure what her partner would choose and the realization was frightening.

“Fόdlan will never be my home,” she said after a time. “No matter how much time passes, that truth will keep.”

Connla’s disappointment was plain. His shoulders sank along with his expression. Surprisingly, Aife seemed to echo the sentiment. The girl’s eyes dipped beneath her lashes. Silence fell over the table, eclipsing them in a blanket of unease. Shamir wasn’t sure what they expected but refused to give any false platitudes. Still, a part of her wondered at the disquiet she felt. The thought of returning to Dagda had been a comfort for years now. So why did the notion not fill her with relief as it once did?

Shamir wrapped a hand around wood, yearning for the familiar weight of a dagger.

  
  


* * *

_It started, as these things often do, on a lark. The nobleman who had contracted her services was the squirrelly sort, ever nervous and brimming with ill intent. But her options were slim and work had been scarce, so she took the job without complaint. It was meant to be a simple thing — break into a secluded monastery and assassinate one woman. Of course, she had not been versed in the woman’s title nor what it meant. So it was that she traipsed up the Ohgma in ignorance and was caught unaware._

_The archer had not expected her target to be so heavily guarded. Thoughts of a monastery did not bring to mind an armed force, and that faulty assumption led to her inevitable capture. However, that did not mean she went down without a struggle. It took them hours for them to corner her and a significant group to finally subdue the mercenary. Exhausted and bloodied, Shamir was hauled to the Archbishop’s feet. She had stared into the woman’s face, jaw locked and refusing to bend. Yet, rather than death, the woman proposed a deal._

_The woman wanted the mercenary to turn against her client and in return, she would be granted freedom.** '****As well as work, should you wish it.’ The Archbishop had smiled, winsome and gentle. But those eyes were piercing, belying her calm mien.** Shamir was wary of the offer from the start. What was there for the woman to gain? Was this merely a prelude to something far more sinister? Surely, there was more to the woman’s intentions. Nonetheless, she could not find a suitable reason to object. Only a fool would decline such a generous proposal._

_After she was released, Shamir hunted the nobleman down. It was a simple thing to gut him as he slept. The man was not prominent enough for a full cabinet of servants and his guards were indolent wastes of air. She returned to the monastery once the deed was done, presenting the nobleman’s signet ring as proof. The Archbishop had been most pleased by her performance._

_From that moment onward, Shamir found herself within the ranks of Knights and Lords. Grand titles these, but their importance never held sway over her. Even the highest of them, her eternally revered employer, did not truly impress. Certainly, she was grateful. Rhea had given her a place to stay and a bounty of work. But there was something about the woman’s manner that gave her pause. Her employer was strangely unpredictable and the question of why she was spared lingered in the back of her mind._

_One such instance stood out from the rest. Rhea had called the Dagdan woman to the audience chamber; a common enough occurrence. Shamir had expected to be given a mission, but that was not the case. Instead, the woman greeted her warmly before ushering her into the study. Shamir followed obediently, but not without trepidation. She had yet to get the measure of this strange woman and could not anticipate her reactions. It was not often a person evaded her scrutiny. As she stood across from the Archbishop, Rhea smiled._

_“You’ve served me well these past few months. I’m quite impressed.” She raised her head, eyes meeting Shamir’s steadily. There was something to be said for the woman’s assurance. Lesser individuals avoided direct eye contact, but Rhea never wavered. **דבריה הם משי אך עמוד השדרה שלה מפלדה.** “Yet I cannot help but wonder if you feel comfortable here. How are you settling in?”_

_“I have no complaints.” Shamir held her gaze, arms crossed. She ventured nothing else, waiting for her employer to speak. Rhea’s mouth pulled, lips widening over even teeth._

_“I’m glad to hear this. I worried if your foreign heritage would lead to some unforeseen unpleasantness.”_

_“Such as?”_

_Rhea refrained from responding immediately. She crossed her legs and settled her palms atop the desk. For the first time, Shamir noticed the silvery scars decorating the woman’s knuckles. The elegant and proper Archbishop was not as civilized as she seemed._

_“My Knights are trained and well-disciplined, but their faith lends to an irrevocable certainty. To encounter one who shares a potentially disparate set of beliefs...” Rhea trailed and sighed. “It would be a shame for anyone to come to blows over differing ideology.”_

_“Do you think I would attempt to proselytize?” Shamir rankled at the insinuation. The Archbishop appeared to notice this and offered an apologetic smile._

_“Forgive me. My intention was not to offend. I only want to stem any misunderstandings that might occur.” Rhea straightened, favoring her subordinate with a prying look. “I must confess, I have little knowledge of your people. Dagda has never seen fit to trade with Fόdlan and what little interaction we’ve faced has been steeped in hostility. Perhaps you can understand my apprehension, considering this scant knowledge.”_

_“Maybe,” Shamir admitted, settling. “Fine. What do you want to know?”_

_“I only require a bit of clarification.” Rhea gestured faintly to the Dagdan woman. “A Knight came to me recently, inquiring about the Goddess’ view on foreign deities. Apparently, you had told him about the nature of your gods and this **Father**.”_

_“He asked. Would you prefer if I had ignored him?"_

_“Frankly, yes. I would.” The Archbishop pursed her lips. “Tell me, do you consider yourself a devout woman?”_

_Shamir paused to think about the question._

_“No. I do not.” She hadn’t been for a long while. After all, what was the point of putting faith in a God you know would not heed your pleas? Even His children were spectators rather than guides. Humanity was a test of individual will and worship was a choice as with everything else. “I believe, as most of my people do, but I do not consider faith to be a crux of my person.”_

_“And what of your countrymen? Does the whole of Dagda follow this example, or do they seek conversion?”_

_“My people hold the relationship between the Old Father and an individual sacred. It cannot be forced or coerced.” Shamir flexed a hand atop her hip. Irritation caused her muscles to tense. “If you fear a sudden invasion of Dagdan ideals, let me set that baseless assumption to rest. I have no intention of swaying anyone to the Old Father’s side.”_

_“I see. That comes as a great relief to me.” The penetrating look in Rhea’s eyes faded, replaced with palpable ease. Her lips turned up and the sharp beauty of her face softened. It was odd for the mercenary to acknowledge someone’s appeal while also feeling none of it. There was an artifice about her she could not shake; akin to a rusted plank covered with lacquer. Or, if she were to place the electric prickle along her nape as intimidation, like a scorpion wearing the feathers of a swan._

_“However, I must still insist you keep your beliefs private. I would hate for trouble to befall you should a Knight believe you were challenging Church doctrine. It’s a shame, but it must be so.”_

_**Is this an earnest lament or are you just placating me? ** Shamir bit back a scowl, unable to decide in favor of either. The woman sounded genuine in her concern, yet not all poison tasted bitter. However, the archer remained in her service and was paid enough to ignore the slight. She would bite her tongue, for now. Shamir dipped into a bow before taking her leave. The intrusive rake of Rhea’s eyes followed her to the door._

_That encounter did little to endear the Archbishop to her. She respected the woman, certainly. But a line had been drawn and a point was made. No one here would accept her as she was. Their beliefs were absolute and not to be questioned; any curiosity shown was merely a veil for distrust. They did not care to understand her culture and likely never would. Shamir wasn’t sure why she nurtured the idea of otherwise._

_It began from there, the constant alienation she felt. And as the biting winds of Garreg Mach usurped the memory of Dagdan summers, a bud of resentment flourished. It sank roots of resentment into the stony facade of the monastery, growing with each suspicious look and loathsome whisper. Shamir knew then, it was futile to think she’d ever be welcome here._

_ **ארץ נחשים לעולם לא יכולה להיות בית בשבילי.** _

  
  


* * *

  
  


The distinctive crack of splitting wood greeted Shamir as she wandered into the rear yard. She cast her eyes along the grass, stopping upon Catherine's figure. The woman was positioning another log atop the block. The line of her shoulders was noticeably tense, spine rigid and straight. Shamir glanced at the axe in her hand, noting the tight curl of her fingers. Catherine brought the axe above, muscle flexing beneath linen, before the steel dropped. The log was split neatly, appearing effortless.

The scene was reminiscent of other moments in time when a blade arched over a fair head. And just like then, she had stared at her back and wondered at the Knight's thoughts. Shamir pushed the imagery aside. Their days of ceaseless bloodshed was over now. She went to her partner, allowing her steps to be heard.

“The day is passing quickly. You should eat something."

Catherine stilled while piling the wood. Her head turned to the Dagdan woman, brows arched.

“Is it?” Blue eyes scanned the heavens. Then the Knight flashed a tight grin, shouldering her axe. “I guess you’re right. Sorry, lost track of time.”

“I can tell.” Shamir eyed the towering wall of firewood beside the chapel. “I think that’ll be a more than adequate stockpile for the winter. Should I help you in thinning this forest or are you done?”

“Maybe I’m planning to build the kids a fort. Did you ever think of that?” Catherine snorted and relaxed her posture. “But I see your point. I just needed to hit something. I thought this would be better than starting brawl in town.”

“Venting your anger on trees is certainly better than caving a villager’s face in.” Shamir crossed her arms. “Weyland refused you, I take it.”

“More than that. The surly goat wouldn’t even hear me out!” The Knight licked her teeth before spitting on the ground. She wiped her face, a frustrated growl slipping from her throat. “He’s holed up in that shack of his and refuses to leave. I tried to apologize, but shouting at a door quickly gets tiresome.”

“Give him more time. If he’s anything like you, he’ll be bored of his anger soon.”

Catherine huffed, casting a bemused look at Shamir.

“You have a rather measured view of me. I think I’m offended.”

“It’s only pattern-recognition and you are all too predictable.” The shorter woman canted her head and looked down Catherine’s frame. “You burn hot as wildfire but cool fast without anything to fuel it. You’ve already admitted he shares your stubborn nature. Would it be a stretch to think he’s similar here too?”

“Maybe not. I can’t say I like the comparison though.” Catherine paused, rubbing her neck. Then she smiled widely. “Heh, I would say I’m more personable at the very least. Prettier too.”

“Hm.” Shamir hummed and made a show of considering. She swept a hand across her partner’s arm, brushing aside a stray shard of wood. “I suppose you’re not terrible on the eyes. Still, I would have to meet the man to make an informed decision.”

“Ha! If you want to compare us I won’t stop you.” The Knight waggled her brows playfully. “Maybe he’ll take a liking to you and I can get my job back. What do you say, Shamir, feel up to sweet-talking him for me?”

“If all else fails, perhaps I will. It would be an interesting experience to meet the man who got the best of Thunder Catherine.”

Something passed over her partner’s face, dark and forbidding like a coming storm. Then it vanished just as quickly as it appeared. Catherine smirked.

“A claim to fame he's woefully ignorant of. Yet I wouldn't say he's got the best me yet. He might be a proud sod, but I've faced worse." The Knight stretched, rolling her neck and shoulders. The air was cool, but a sheen of sweat decorated her skin nonetheless. Shamir drank in the sight, enjoying the play of daylight upon flaxen hair. As Catherine faced her, sky-colored eyes aglow with warmth, she found her mouth curving into a smile.

“That you have.” Shamir took a step closer, wishing to close the space between them, when a patter of feet caught her attention. She spotted Connla in her periphery. The boy darted for them, nearly tripping over himself as he came to a sudden stop.

“Cassia, you’re back!” He beamed up at the Knight. “Can you come with me? I want to show you something.”

“And what would that be?” Catherine leaned down to match his eye level, humoring him with a smile. Connla’s face lit with excitement and he tugged at her arm.

“I made a forge! Just like you and Weyland.” The boy swiped his nose with a thumb before gesturing behind him. “Might not got fire, but I can get water from the well. If I tie a rock to some twigs I think I can make a hammer too.”

“Oh? Planning to be a smith, are you?” Catherine chuckled, glancing up at Shamir. The Dagdan woman stared at her partner, brow raised. She nodded her head after a moment. Heeding her silent approval, Catherine clapped Connla on the back heartily. “Well, c’mon then. Let’s go see this forge of yours.”

Shamir watched them leave, expression smooth. There would be time to talk with the other woman later. Whether it be the soldiers in the valley, her concerns about Bothild, or just the things still left unsaid between them. She watched her partner laugh as the boy struggled to lift a large rock. Catherine stooped, picking up the stone easily. Connla appeared to sulk and the woman broke into a rolling chuckle. There was no hint of the tension she displayed just a couple of days prior; only mirth and evident ease.

Yes, it could wait just a bit longer.

  
  


* * *

  
  


As the sun wound down, both women tended to the chapel residents. The children were easy enough to please. Both were rather enamored with Catherine and followed close to her heel like overzealous ducklings. If Shamir were the sort of woman to find such antics amusing, she would have ventured to call it sweet. However, she could not deny the pang of fondness she felt as Catherine entertained them. It made her wonder about the woman’s formative years and the family she left behind.

She could easily see the Knight being the favored playmate of all her younger siblings. She had boundless energy and an easy manner that most children would flock to. With a quick joke and flash of her smile, Catherine could set anyone at ease. By comparison, Shamir could not recall an instance where her various siblings sought her company. If they needed anything it was always advice or council. Comfort was not something they required of her. Perhaps it was her own fault for wearing her stripes so blatantly. Unlike Catherine, she never bothered to hide her fangs.

Shamir stirred from those thoughts, mildly surprised by the direction her mind took. It had been the better part of a decade since she pondered her years in Dagda. She bit her tongue, pain keeping her anchored in the present. For the rest of the evening, Shamir went about the daily chores as her partner minded the children. The hours went by fast as their lively chatter filled the air. After a while, Bothild mustered the energy to join them; though her features were noticeably wan.

It was hard not to notice the difference in her demeanor, even if the nun would protest as such. Her presence was sedate, hardly speaking, and punctuated with periodic coughing. Shamir eyed her discreetly, ever aware of the nun's flagging spirits. Fortunately, the older woman had regained her appetite and ate a light meal at supper. Then she shuffled back to her room, firmly waving away in cries of worry.

_“You all act as if I have one foot in the grave!” Bothild had scoffed, bundling her blanket tight. “I should box your ears for thinking so ill of me.”_

The declaration didn’t seem to be believed from the nervous looks her wards gave her. Seeing this, Catherine distracted them easily with a tale from their days on the road. A heavily edited and romanticized telling, but it served well enough to capture their attention. Soon, they were all gathered around the fire pit and listened as Catherine spun her tale. Shamir recognized it at once, hiding a small smile from view.

Her partner had opted in favor of one of their first missions together. It was meant to be a simple reconnaissance along the Myrddin. It hadn’t stayed that way by any means, but that was due to several different factors. Their camaraderie was fragile and their knowledge of each other’s temperament was sparse. Shamir knew the woman to be impulsive and somewhat feckless, but she hadn’t anticipated the Knight to run into a clear ambush without a care. Relic ablaze, Catherine charged into the fray like a bull. She got surprisingly far before she lost her footing by the bank and slipped into the river.

“...And there I was, flailing about in a sodden suit of armor as I tried to keep my head above the surface.” Catherine waved her arms emphatically. Connla’s eyed were wide, completely enraptured. “Now it wasn’t that deep mind you, but the muck beneath my feet couldn’t hold my weight without giving; so I tried to use my sword as a cane. Sadly, bad luck struck and I ended up getting the teeth caught within the mud.”

“Swords don’t have teeth.” Aife squinted up at the woman. “...Do they?”

“Most don’t, but mine was unique.” Catherine traced a shape into the air, resembling Thunderbrand’s distinctive profile. “There was nothing like it anywhere else in Fόdlan, since it was passed through my family for generations.”

“So like Pa's shield." Connla preened. His chest puffed. "It was our grandpap's before it was his. Now it's mine."

“Just like that, yes." Catherine chuckled before clearing her throat. "But back to the story. There I was, fumbling around trying to free my blade when an archer set his sights on me. I was easy pickings and completely oblivious to the danger. Suddenly, I heard a faint whistle pass by my ear. Then I looked up to see the archer's head be pierced clean through!"

The Knight clapped her hands together quickly. Both children jumped in alarm. Connla stirred from his surprise to smile widely, clearly entertained. His sister wasn’t as amused. Aife paled, clutching her doll to her chest. Shamir took note of this silently, gauging the girl’s reaction.

“An arrow had struck him clean through the eye and burst out the back of his skull. Neat and efficient.” Catherine tapped the side of her head. “Turns out, Shay was hiding by the opposite bank and saved my hide. I was awed and incredibly grateful. She helped me out of the water afterward, though not without a vicious scolding.”

“It was deserved. We were meant to observe the situation not solve it immediately.” Shamir resisted the urge to roll her eyes, conscious of the children’s curious stares. “Nevertheless, Cassia and I mopped up the rest and returned to our camp relatively unscathed.”

“Ha! Speak for yourself. I had to walk back with soggy trousers and a bruised ego.” Catherine scratched her jaw thoughtfully. Her gaze cut to the Dagdan woman. The blue of her iris reflected the orange glow of the fire, colors melding into something warm and gentle. “Without Shay, I’m sure I wouldn’t be here at all. I couldn’t ask for a better partner.”

“That’s nice and all, but I wanted to hear about the _fights_. You know, the good bits!” Connla interjected, bouncing in his seat. Next to him, Aife blanched even further. The girl shrank in her seat as if to shy away from any gory details. Taking pity, Shamir stood and addressed her partner.

“I think that’s enough war stories for one night. We can save the rest for another time.” She looked at the children, sending them a pointed stare. “Both of you should get to bed. I don’t want to hear any whining when the sun rises and it’s time for chores.”

“Aw, chores? But Sister Bothild usually takes care of those.” Connla deflated, pouting.

“Sister Bothild is also sick. Would you have her do everything while running a fever?”

The boy winced and looked down at his feet. Catherine laughed lightly.

“You better listen to her, Connla. My partner isn’t known for her mercy. Besides, work builds character.” She stretched out an arm and flexed. “As well as muscle. Don’t you want to be a smith someday?”

“I suppose so...” Connla appeared to brighten at this, blinking in thought. Then he leapt to his feet. “If I do, can I watch you and Weyland work?”

“I’d have to convince the old man first. But if he relents, I’ll bring you with me.”

The boy nodded furiously before scampering to his room. Aife followed sluggishly, her features still pallid. Shamir’s lips thinned to a tight line. The girl was quite different from her brother in every way. She could empathize, to an extent. In her youth, she hadn’t enjoyed the thought of death or violence in any capacity. Yet the path she chose consisted of just that. Life was a strange and unknowable thing. Shamir heard Catherine huff in amusement.

“That kid is a riot. We had best watch him close, lest he set the church on fire trying to ‘forge’.”

“He admires you," Shamir commented simply. She favored her partner with a sidelong look. "Aife is fond of you too, for whatever reason."

“They’re kids. Give them a new playmate and they love them immediately.” Catherine relaxed into her seat, kicking her heels beside the fire. Her brows rose beneath feathery bangs. “Heh, unless you’re envious of me? Do you want them to nip at your boots too?”

“I just find it interesting how good you are with children, considering your ambivalence for the academy students.”

“You say that like I despised them.” The Knight smirked but her stare was even; devoid of levity. “It’s not hard to earn a child’s awe. And those brats at the monastery never lacked for that. But their admiration wasn’t truly meant for me, only for what I had done in the name of duty.”

Catherine’s expression darkened as her eyes strayed to the fire.

“The Bergliez boy was like that; all starry-eyed and full of questions. I humored him a little, but I doubt he liked the answers I gave. He seemed to think of me as some sort of hero. I wonder how it felt to have that illusion stripped away."

“I’m surprised you told him the truth and didn’t maintain the facade.” Shamir gave her partner a measured look. The other woman shrugged her shoulders.

“What good would that have done? Better to dash his hopes early, rather than have him waste his life fighting for something as ambiguous as justice.” She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “That was what I thought, at the time. His idealism bothered me. The same could be said for the Galatea girl. Yet they triumphed where I did not. Funny bit of irony there.”

“I think there was more at factor there than a simple separation of ideals.”

“You’re right in that.” Catherine’s jaw worked, cheek twitching with agitation. “I despised what I thought was naiveté, and perhaps it was to some degree. But I think the majority of my frustration was what they reminded me of.”

“Christophe?” Shamir asked carefully. The Knight paused, brow furrowing. Then she tipped her head in acquiescence.

“Yes, but also of myself. It was odd to see aspects of my youth reflected back at me. The things I saw and knew to be wrong. The desire to do the righteous thing. The wish to be a _just _knight in service to my liege...” Catherine’s eyes fell to her lap. A humorless smile graced her face. “Ha! I sound like a prat, whinging on about the past. Anyway, I’m sure their admiration has long soured to pity. A bothersome notion, but it’s preferable to the alternative.”

“You would rather earn their spite than esteem?” Shamir frowned. “Catherine—”

“I know it’s odd; nay, incomprehensible.” The other woman took a deep breath, chest rising steadily. “Even at the height of my pride as a Knight I never saw myself as worthy of reverence. It was an honor to serve, but to be praised for the actions I was required to take… That sat like a spike to the chest. My shame, as you put it, was far too strong.”

Suddenly, she fell quiet. Calloused fingers flexed atop her knees. Shamir stared at her partner, processing the information given. She had guessed as much when the woman revealed her past. But she had not accounted for the frank admittance Catherine gave. The Knight craned her head, forcing their eyes to meet.

“I don’t want to think it was all for naught. I don’t want to believe I served an institution that only hurt the people they were meant to protect. Just as I didn’t want to see the corruption already around me or the crumbling sanity of a woman I revered. But that was just me being self-serving.”

“It’s easier to believe a comforting lie than a painful truth.” Shamir lowered her voice to match Knight’s somber tone. Catherine searched her face, mouth a hard line.

“I blinded myself to anything that disturbed the convenient reality I built for myself. But it was a castle built on sand – doomed to collapse.” Catherine exhaled sharply, eyes closing for a time. Then she barked out a laugh. “Heh, I digress. Connla and Aife are good kids, but I can’t say I enjoy their admiration. If they had any sense, they’d trail after you rather than me.”

“I’m the furthest thing from a role model.” Shamir lifted a brow in faint incredulity. “A mercenary is hardly a paragon of virtue, and the work I did for the Church was just as bloody as yours.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t lying to yourself along the way,” The Knight explained easily. Her words were sharp, but her smile seemed more natural. “You knew the score from the beginning. You didn’t try to justify your actions as divine sanction or necessary to keep the peace. And when it got too much, you chose to leave. That’s more than I can say about my actions.”

“...You’re too keen to compliment me. I did nothing that didn’t suit me already. If you want to quantify who is more self-serving, I’m sure my actions would outweigh yours.” Shamir shifted in her chair, mildly perturbed by her partner’s fervent praise.

“Are you trying to stop me from admiring you?” Catherine’s lips stretched into a broad grin. “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that. I could write sonnets extolling your many virtues. Should I sing them to you one of these days, Lady Shamir?”

“If you want me to smack you, go ahead.”

“I do love a woman who challenges me.” Catherine chuckled brightly, messy hair falling into her eyes. Shamir scoffed and crossed her arms. She graced her partner with an unimpressed glare.

“And here I thought you preferred the kind that puts you in your place.”

The biting retort earned a startled look from the Knight. Shamir regretted her sharp words upon seeing this. She dipped her chin, avoiding Catherine’s stare. The Dagdan woman tensed as she heard her partner clear her throat.

“Maybe a bit of that too, but only from you.” Catherine wet her lips before continuing. “I said this before, but it bears repeating. I never _wanted_ Lady Rhea. She was beautiful, but only in the abstract. It was her command I desired; nothing more.”

“I understand that.” Shamir turned her gaze to the fire, watching as embers danced atop blackened wood. “I’m trying to, at least. However, it’s an opinion I’ve long held as fact. And after that night...”

“Which one?”

She raised her eyes, casting them over Catherine’s face. It took only a moment for recognition to dawn. Understanding passed between them, cold and hard as a winter wind. She saw the Knight’s face fall as she swallowed visibly. They said nothing for a protracted instant, joined in painful reflection. They had never spoken of the night they shared. Alluded and avoided, but never traded words. Yet a nagging question had remained; one Shamir thought long answered. So what did it mean now that her assumptions were proven false?

Her heart jolted traitorously as she forced herself to speak.

“The night of the ball. When we talked on the balcony.” Shamir ignored the tremulous undercurrent of her voice, trying to keep composure. “I thought I understood. I told myself it would be folly to compete against her; that your devotion was too deep. Yet now you say that wasn’t the case.”

The Dagdan woman stared across the room, taking in the neutral affect of Catherine’s expression. Her skin was awash with the fire’s glow and she recalled another night when flames painted her profile. Not the violent chaos of Fhirdiad, but rather a simple moment spent in the eve. _I knew I could love you then. __ויש לי כל יום מאז_. Shamir gathered herself and finally aired her question.

“So if you didn’t love Rhea… why did you push me away?”

Catherine did not stir for a time. Her face was still, jaw tense with something unknown. Her throat moved, bobbing gently. Shamir waited, trying hard the tenuous bud of hope within her breast. Yet before the Knight could answer, a slight sniffling came from the hall. Shamir blinked, caught off guard as Aife appeared. The girl’s face was wet, glossy trails climbing down her cheeks.

“Aife." Catherine's face changed, twisting with concern. "Something wrong, kiddo? What's with the waterworks?"

“She probably had a nightmare. I imagine your story had something to do with that.” Shamir sighed, pushing aside the faint annoyance she felt. It wasn’t the girl’s fault she interrupted them. If anything, she should be irritated at her partner for not sparing the gory details. Resigned, Shamir rose to her feet. “I’ll put her back to bed. It may take a bit, so don’t bother waiting. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Oh." Catherine hesitated. After a brief period, she nodded in acknowledgment. "I… Yeah. I guess I'll put out the fire and head to bed then. Good night, Shay."

“Good night, Cassia.” Shamir turned her back, not wishing to see Catherine walk away from her. It would only remind her of missed opportunities. She shifted her attention to Aife, noting the girl’s tight hold on her doll and the warble of chapped lips. Shamir schooled her features into an impassive mask. “Let’s get you back to bed. Do you need anything before that?”

“No.” Aife sniffed, wiping her face with a sleeve.

“Good. Then let's go." She turned and took a step towards the girl's room. A gentle tug came on her pant leg, stopping her short. She looked down and saw hazel eyes widen with an unspoken plea.

“C-Can I hold your hand?” The girl appeared to struggle with her words before emitting another sniff. “Please?”

Shamir stared at her silently. Then she stretched out a hand, fingers spread. Aife’s face lit with relief and she snatched the limb without further complaint. Together they walked the short distance to the girl’s quarters, passing by the deep snoring burrs coming from Connla’s room. He sounded more bear than boy and Shamir was bemused the girl didn’t have night terror’s from that alone.

Quickly, she ushered Aife inside and watched as her tiny form crawled beneath the sheets. The girl tucked her covers beneath and chin and glanced at the woman expectantly. Shamir tilted her head, unsure what the girl wanted from her. After a moment, she addressed the girl again.

“Something wrong?”

“Um...” Aife squirmed, eyes darting everywhere but on the Dagdan woman. “I don’t think I can sleep right now.”

“Hmm.” Shamir thought briefly, scrutinizing the girl’s face. “Is there something I can do to help you sleep?”

Aife shrugged, the motion nearly obscured by the bundle of cloth around her. Shamir exhaled slowly, fighting not to feel exasperated.

“When Bothild tucks you in, what does she do?”

“Uh, she tells stories sometimes. Made up ones about sprites and princesses.” The girl gnawed on the end of the sheet; a nervous habit. “I like them, but I don’t want to bother her if she’s hurting.”

“I don't know any stories, I'm afraid." Nor did she have any great talent when it came to creativity. She was a woman consumed by facts and reason. Any effort spent on the imaginative arts was used for practical things such as strategy. Creating a story from nothing was a daunting prospect. Her father had told her a few of the ancient myths, but those usually ended terribly due to unwelcome mischief or hubris. In other words, nothing that would suit a young girl disposed toward nightmares.

However, she did know a couple of Dagdan lullabies. Shamir pondered, lyrics poised upon her tongue. There was a song she had once held dear. It had been long and simple; a tune for children to cling to as they slept. Her mother, a quiet woman with a lilting voice, sang it often within their home. To her as a babe and then her siblings, on and on for years. Then her mother passed and the song was never heard again. But it came to her, sudden as a storm, and her tongue dripped with her mother tongue.

“_Night, night, the wind is blowing. Night, night, the treetops are whistling._”

Aife blinked gamely at her but stopped her idle fidgeting. Hazel eyes were bright, shining with curiosity.

“_Night, night, a star is singing. Hush, hush, put out the candle._” Shamir walked to the girl's bed and sat at the end. She concentrated on the lyrics, dusting off the years to find those long-buried memories.

“_Night, night, shut your eyes. Night, night, on their way to you rode three armed horsemen. Hush, hush, sleep._”

She remembered thinking the song as rather strange as a child. It seemed to speak of a group of riders coming to bring the listener on an unknown journey. Sadly, their quest ended in failure.

“_The first horseman fell prey to a beast; the second died in battle; and the one who was left could not remember your name._”

Nonetheless, the tune was soft and dreamy; even if the meaning was muddled. For a Fόdlan girl with no knowledge of Dagdan, it served well enough. Shamir’s voice lowered in register as the song reached its end. Aife’s eyes lidded with each softly uttered syllable.

“_Hush, hush, sleep. Hush, hush, only you are waiting. Hush, hush, the road is empty._”

The last word lingered in the air, tune carrying. Shamir stood, repeating the last verse as she stepped away. In the bed, Aife did not stir. Her tiny chest rose in even bursts. Shamir hesitated in the doorway, searching for any sign of disruption. When she was finally convinced of the girl’s slumber, she exited the room. She shut the door gently and turned on her heel.

To her surprise, a shadow loomed down the hall. She tensed and jerked her head in its direction, only to relax as Catherine’s frame came into view. The woman had her arms crossed, flank repose against the wall. Her eyes were closed, but they opened as Shamir stepped forward. A smile tilted her lips.

“You should sing in Dagdan more often,” Catherine said gently. “Although, I think I could settle for you singing in any language. What was that song anyway?”

“Nothing significant; just something my mother sang to me.” Shamir strode over to her. She took in her partner's shadow soaked visage. Sapphire eyes pierced the dark, clear and intense as a lightning strike. "I’m surprised you’re still awake. Were you also beset with bad dreams?”

“No. Not today.” Catherine shook her head, figure indistinct in the dim light. Shamir squinted, attempting to decipher the Knight’s expression. It proved impossible with the surrounding darkness. She pursed her lips and shouldered by the taller woman.

“You should try to get some rest. I don’t think Weyland would be all that impressed if you show up sleep-deprived."

“Wait.” A firm hand wrapped around her waist. Fingers conformed to the shape of her hip and Shamir froze at the touch. She looked up into Catherine’s face, shadows fleeing under sparse moonlight. “Before, when we were talking… you asked me a question.”

"I did," Shamir commented, keeping her body still. Catherine's grip was warm and familiar. She let her tension fade, having little desire to pull herself free. The Knight appeared to consider something, brow dipped with thought. Then, she took a steadying breath.

“It was never about desire or the lack of it. I don’t wish for you to think that.” Catherine’s hold tightened, but it was far from unpleasant. “I always wanted you, even when I shouldn’t have.”

Despite herself, anticipation curled in Shamir’s belly; heated and ebbed like the ocean waves of her home. She listened attentively, not daring to curtail her partner’s speech. Catherine spoke again, confident and sure.

“It’s a curious thing, self-loathing. It makes you think you’re not worth the air you breathe. And I knew I could never deserve you. Still, I yearned for you to be near me always.” She clenched her teeth with a snap. “But I had failed someone I loved before. It scared me, to think of losing you in the same manner. Because I knew, in a choice between love or duty, I couldn’t sacrifice the latter.”

“I never asked that of you.” Shamir rethought her words for a moment. “Save for the end.”

“Maybe, but I didn’t want to take that chance. It felt safer to be a mere instrument of the Goddess. No wants. No conflicts of interest. Nothing, save for Her will. But there _you_ were.” Catherine leaned in. Their temples met in a light touch. “You were strong and clever; honest and bold. Most of all, courageous in a way I had never been. You saved me countless times, supported us both through these long months, and asked for nothing. I don’t know if I could ever match any of that.”

Abruptly, she pressed their bodies closer. Her eyes burned in the dark.

“But I want to try. I want to be a woman worthy of you and support you as you have me. I may fail. I may not ever completely forget the purpose I once held dear. Yet I will strive my hardest to deserve you.” A beat passed as Catherine paused. “Unless you no longer want that?”

“...Idiot.” Shamir sighed heavily. The smile on her lips took away the epithet’s sting. She dragged her fingers through her partner’s hair. “Did you honestly think I would say no? Perhaps I should deny you on principle.”

“I’m at your whim.” The look in Catherine’s eyes gentled. “Shamir, you told me plain so I shall do the same. I love you. I have for years and I intend to keep loving you until the end of my days.”

The warmth in Shamir’s chest ignited into a blaze at those words. She felt her breath catch, thrown by the sincerity heard in Catherine’s voice. Her hands intertwined behind wheat-colored strands.

“You love me?” She sent her partner a coy glance, lip pulled between her teeth. “Then show me.”

Catherine smiled at the challenge; a feral gnash that was both familiar and not. She clutched the shorter woman tight and folded her lips over a waiting mouth. Shamir received the embrace eagerly, savoring the heady taste of her partner. A hand traced up her spine before a feather-light caress dipped into the small of her back.

There was a frantic edge to this kiss Shamir couldn’t deny; something only briefly glimpsed once before so many years ago. It seeped between each trade of air and slide of flesh. A reverberating groan ripped from Catherine's throat and shook its way through the Dagdan woman’s ribs. It reminded her of thunder atop a slippery pass. An echo from the past colliding into the current moment.

But memory falters in the face of reality and as Catherine swept her away, arms bearing her weight without strain, Shamir could only focus on the present. She took everything her partner had to give, unwilling to lose purchase for fear of never finding it again. She fell atop rumpled sheets, wrapped in the scent of ash and sandalwood. Their eyes met in a breathless instant. Catherine hovered over her, searching for something she could not define. Then the woman descended, all gentility fleeing amid desperation and hunger. Shamir met her gladly, tugging her to the sheets in a tangle of limbs.

No more words needed to be said, only sensation needed to remain. And as they pried away bothersome cloth, Shamir could feel the years of longing be torn as well. Fulfillment replaced every lonesome wish and icy uncertainty. She licked Catherine’s jugular, biting into a fluttering pulse. Her partner, the love she barely dared to hope for, gave a rolling laugh. Then the Knight stole her mouth once more and roved eager hands along bare skin.

It was a joining in slow increments. Fast and jarring at the start, slowing to soft and reverential as desire began to sate. However, the intense affection they felt never lessened and Shamir could feel the worship within Catherine’s careful touch. In the end, as they settled beneath the sheets, skin slick from exertion, she wondered at how she could have missed the reverence in her partner’s gaze. However, she felt it now in every kiss and fond stroke. Shamir allowed her eyes to close, faintly registering the press of lips across the back of her neck.

**Next Chapter: Undercooling**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ayyyyy it happened! Would you look at that! Truthfully, the original outline had them clean up their act towards the very end but I thought that would be a little too much. Now I can write them being something other than barely functioning balls of angst. Fun times are ahead, my friends~  
It was nice getting back to Shamir and this chapter serves as a prelude for the next leg of her development. I hope you guys don't mind the kids too much, lol. I would love to hear any thoughts about how this chapter went! The song used here is not of my creation. I just liked the sound of it and the lyrics seemed like something Dagdans would sing to their children. The name is Laila Laila and if you want to listen to it, here's a link:  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFDWQeeWNog
> 
> Thank you for reading!! Until next time - AdraCat


	14. Undercooling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A former Knight discovers answers long sought.  
At last, a tentative peace is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love and a big thank you to my lovely beta, johnxfire <3

That night had been a revelation; a rending of every illusion and lie Catherine dared tell herself. And as she learned each curve of her partner's body — underneath skin painted with moonlight and beneath the soft give of breast and the clinging silk of desire — she finally found the answers that eluded her for years. How could she not? It was only natural to discover the truth within this love she bore for her partner. At her core, Shamir was a woman of honesty and Catherine adored her for it.

By contrast, her life had been a long march of deception, both self-inflicted and not. Shamir, in her unflinching and direct manner, was her antithesis. But here they were. Catherine drank her in, wanton and without reserve. She reveled in each breath taken and every hitching cry she wrought. She savored Shamir’s huffs of irritation as she pressed a teasing kiss to her thigh and thrilled when the woman arched in completion. Then, Catherine yearned as her partner tugged her into an ardent kiss.

Most of all, she loved her. Intensely, achingly; with a fervor that surpassed even the deepest faith. It was a surprise, yet one tempered by knowledge. She had known just how easy it would be to forget everything save for selfish want. It was why she had avoided it for so long, forever afraid of anything that might shatter her dedication to the Goddess.

_What a waste_, she mused, fingers tracing intricate paths along heated skin. Teeth and tongue met; a reminder of this woman’s dual nature. A blade in silk. _I could have had this for years._ It was a bittersweet thought, but one she did not ponder for long. The Knight she had been would not have deserved her partner. Perhaps they would have loved just as deeply. However, it would have been marred by the oppressive weight of the Church.

_Could I have given you all of me?_ Catherine pressed her mouth over Shamir’s heart. An erratic beat fluttered beneath her lips. _Would I have treated you with honor? Or would I have taken and given nothing in return?_

She didn’t know, but it was an idle notion that didn’t need to be answered. The present was far more compelling. Catherine dove into the love Shamir offered and lost herself as she always knew she would. Yet it was not the frigid unknown she had feared. Rather, it was the gentle warmth she always felt with the Dagdan woman. There, with the taste of Shamir’s smile upon her tongue and the glide of fingers across her skin, Catherine learned the meaning of perfection. Everything else paled in comparison.

When the rush of heat faded, she pressed her lips to Shamir’s neck and murmured a prayer. It was the first time in months that she besought the Goddess for anything, but she wanted to make her intentions clear. _Forgive me. My vows as a Knight are done. I cannot serve You any longer. _She clutched her partner tight_. _Catherine did not know if the Goddess heard; nor, if She did, whether her declaration would be accepted.

The Church taught that the Goddess did not suffer failure from Her champions. And Catherine had failed Her thrice over. Yet the flush of shame that usually followed this notion was absent at present — as was her conviction in divine sanction. Her faith was not broken but the fervor was gone. A Knight of Seiros no longer. So she allowed herself to slip away, soothed with each even breath Shamir took.

When Catherine awoke, she felt something brush against her brow. Then, the touch drifted and she recognized the sensation of deft fingers weaving through her hair. She opened her eyes and met violet. Shamir was watching her carefully, stare unreadable. The woman appeared to have woken long before, bearing little remnant of slumber. Her hair was faintly mussed, glossy strands dark with shadow. The rest of her was similarly disheveled, skin pink and raised where teeth had found purchase. Yet nothing detracted from Shamir's beauty. Catherine admired her in silence, content to spend the rest of her days beside this extraordinary woman. She smiled as Shamir continued to play with her bangs.

“You do that a lot,” Catherine chuckled. She slid closer, comforted by the languid strokes. “Do you find my hair that fascinating?”

Shamir remained quiet for a time but her stare never wavered.

“Fair hair isn’t common in Dagda. It’s seen as a mark of foreign heritage.” She paused, appearing to consider something. “In some isolated regions, the color portends greatness. For they believe the Father dipped their heads in gold rather than iron.”

“Ah, so a bit like crests then.”

“Not at all.” Shamir narrowed her eyes, displeased. “We do not elevate children on birth. It’s more comparable to fortune-telling than anything.”

“My mistake.” Catherine traced a hand down her partner’s hip in apology. Comparing Dagda to Fόdlan in any manner tended to ruffle her feathers. “I never thought about how different I might appear to people outside of Fόdlan. When we met, did I look quite ridiculous to you?”

“I had already been in Fόdlan for more than a year at that point. I was used to seeing golden-haired idiots traipsing around as if they were owed the world. However...” Shamir’s voice faded. She bit her lip. “Did I ever tell you about my first contract? As a mercenary.”

“No.” Catherine blinked, thrown by the sudden change of topic. “I always assumed it was something simple. Maybe as protection for a caravan or some such.”

“Hmm. You were right about it being simple.” The Dagdan woman closed her eyes briefly. “The western edges of Dagda is disparate from the rest. Barren of man, it is a wild land filled with wild creatures. And some of those animals are prized above the rest. Naturally, it’s common for a Prince to issue a bounty for their pelts.”

“These Princes of yours don’t sound too different from Fόdlan lords. Both are too lazy to do their own work.”

“Perhaps,” She replied, non-committal. “The work was uncomplicated and far from arduous. So I accepted a contract to bring the pelt of a lion.”

“Ha! Well, that's a fine hunt." Catherine grinned broadly. "Did it prove a challenge for the young Shamir?"

“Yes, but not for the reason you might assume. It took me weeks to find a solid lead and each time I seemed close to discovery the animal alluded me.” Shamir’s gaze seemed to drift, staring into the past. “One day I heard a roar shake the trees. I headed towards the cry and smelled blood on the wind. Another hunter had set a trap and it had captured the very quarry I sought. The beast was clawing at metal teeth and chain, attempting to free its leg. Then it looked at me as I approached.”

“You put it down, right?”

“I was primed to. My bow was pulled, arrow nocked, yet I found myself hesitating.” She licked her lips and Catherine’s attention strayed. The glow of morning had saturated the room and settled like a golden shawl over her partner’s frame. She looked, in a word, divine; far more than the flat depictions of the Goddess upon tapestry. “The lion had bared its fangs and growled, low and terrible. However, for all its malice, I found the beast beautiful. The sunset was soaked into its fur and the sight stopped me short. Then, it occurred to me that I did not have to do as my employer wished.”

Catherine swallowed. Nails prickled her neck as Shamir continued.

“I didn't think it was right for this magnificent creature to die for the inglorious purpose of decorating a man's wall. So instead of killing it, I set it free. Then I returned to the Prince and said I could not find any lions to the west." The Dagdan woman smirked wryly. "The incident did my reputation no favors, but I didn't mind. I chose to stay my hand and it was something I couldn't regret."

“I’m surprised it didn’t attack you.”

“It was fearful, not enraged. Dangerous, yes, but when the trap was opened the animal did not lunge. It ran into the brush as I watched.” Shamir looked away to hold a length of Catherine’s hair to the light. “You reminded me of that day. With every snarl and show of your fangs, I wondered at what wounds you carried.”

“You know them all now,” the former Knight admitted. She softened her tone and kissed Shamir’s shoulder. “Every ugly bit of me. Do you despise what you found?”

Her partner made a faint noise, lips curling. Gracefully, she moved along the sheets before settling astride the taller woman. Catherine stilled as Shamir leaned over her, caught by the sly look in those violet eyes. Bow-calloused fingers danced up her ribs.

“If it was spite I felt, I wouldn’t be in your bed.” Shamir kissed her jaw, palm catching the rhythm of a galloping heart. “Had I not accepted every part of you, I would have left all those years ago. And if we had clashed on that fateful day, I would have sunk an arrow here... Between the shallow gap of flesh and bone.”

“You could stand to work on your pillow talk.” Catherine peered up at her, bemused. “I don’t think people typically express how they would kill their lovers.”

“We are not typical people, Catherine. Where some would court in poems, you’ve given me blood. As I have for you.” A curious weight settled over Shamir’s face. “I think about it every so often, the many ways my life could be altered; the choices I made that have brought me here and those I refused for various reasons. Some were large and encompassing. Others were as simple as that contract.”

Shamir curled her hand, nails raking lightly against olive skin.

"In one world the lion lives and in the other, it dies."

Catherine stared at her, the weight of those words dawning. Affection surged under her skin, a warm haze followed by the electric pulse of want. She reached for Shamir, hands falling into the shallow dip of her waist.

“Then I'm grateful for what you chose." Catherine pressed her lips to the pale expanse of Shamir's neck. Her tongue followed, earning a hitched breath. Shamir was quiet in all things, but Catherine was learning just how expressive she could be. And she wanted to keep learning more, until her lover’s body was as familiar as her own. “Shall I demonstrate just how much?”

“I won’t stop you.” She heard the smile within Shamir’s voice, echoing the fond drag of fingers across her scalp. “Catherine…אני אוהב אותך."

The words were strange and foreign, entirely incomprehensible. Yet the meaning was not lost on her. She could feel it in the air between them, a love shared and tempered in the fires of their partnership. So she did not ask for clarification and committed the foreign syllables to memory. Catherine kissed her long and deep, falling into everything Shamir offered. Over and over again, until the morning bled into the afternoon.

They finally emerged when hunger became too pronounced to ignore. To their surprise, Bothild was awake and tending to the stove. The woman said nothing, but the knowing smile she gave spoke plenty. As Bothild waved them forward she appeared more alert than the day previous. The glassy cast to her gaze was gone and her skin was no longer blanched. At the table, the children greeted them obliviously. Neither seemed to find their absence suspect and no questions were raised. Perhaps the walls were thicker than Catherine had assumed, or maybe the nun had graciously kept them away from their side of the church.

As she sat at the table, Shamir by her side, Catherine discarded the momentary embarrassment. There was no shame in what she felt for her partner. The former Knight had little to hide and she only felt pride in the woman she loved. So when Shamir rose from the table, glancing coyly in her direction, Catherine followed eagerly. Whatever Bothild and her wards thought of this, she couldn’t say. But the amiable smile the nun kept seemed approving.

In truth, it was a strange experience to embrace her wants without fear of mortal or divine censure. Catering only for her partner’s needs and her own desires was a novel concept. That sort of selfishness was discouraged in Faerghus. The Kingdom had been a land eternally consumed by duty and honor. The Church was similar in that regard. In practice, the divide between King and Goddess was null. Both required absolute loyalty, something neither Catherine nor Cassandra gave without strife.

Yet she found devotion remarkably easy when it came to Shamir. _You chose me and I have chosen you. _As this thought passed through her mind, she wanted to speak it aloud. Yet distractions were plenty, especially when faced with Shamir’s lingering touch. There would be time to tell her partner. Perhaps not this moment, but soon.

Days passed like a dream, soft and airy in a way never experienced. The children were hale, Connla excitable as ever and Aife slowly venturing from her timidity. Bothild regained her strength, slow and steady. Her hacking coughs tapered into sparse instances, much to their mutual relief. Amid these small mercies, Shamir stood by Catherine's side. Neither went far without the other. Soon, the Dagdan woman gave up the pretense of separate quarters and moved her things into the shared space. Their room now, at last.

Catherine’s worries were few and her remaining anger at Weyland’s rejection faded into nothing. She barely thought of the man at all. Still, a pang of wistful longing stained her contentment. The heat of the forge, the satisfaction of honest labor, and the creation of something new from unrefined parts. All of it had made her feel more than a lamed woman clawing for a meaning to her life.

Truthfully, she would have relented had the choice not been stripped from her. It was yet another decision made on another’s behest and she rankled at the injustice of it. But the man was not likely to be convinced. She knew his mulish nature all too well; a mirror of her own immovable conviction. Shamir had the right of it. They were similar in temperament but he was far older and set in his ways. Yet Catherine refused to beg. He had his pride and so did she.

Mind made, she forced her thoughts to remain on happier subjects. And when she had Shamir in her arms, the pang discontent was a mere whisper; faint and deftly ignored. But holding patterns were not meant to last and eventually they submitted to the creep of time. That did not mean she embraced this inconvenient fact.

One morning, Catherine woke to the sound of fabric rustling by her feet. She stirred slowly, squinting through the sunlight hovering over her face. Sitting on the bed’s edge was Shamir. The Dagdan woman was fully dressed, bent at the waist to lace her boots. Another gift from their host, but Catherine expected no less from the nun. The older woman was inordinately generous. Catherine shifted on her side, propping a hand beneath her head.

“It’s a bit early to rise, isn’t it?” She looked out the window and estimated the time. “The sun hasn’t even fully risen. Come back to bed and keep me warm.”

“You generate enough heat on your own. Had I not known better, I would suspect you of lighting a fire under the mattress.” Shamir glanced at her shortly. Then she straightened her clothing. Catherine raised a brow, noting the plain robes her partner wore.

“You look rather clergical. Are you heading into the village?”

“I am, as is Bothild. She’s mostly recovered by now and wants to check on the town.” The Dagdan woman's expression twisted with disapproval. "I would rather her concentrate on her health foremost, but she was quite insistent. Supposedly, there’s a woman she’s worried will go into labor soon.”

“Birthing runts is a nasty business. My condolences to the future mother.” Catherine barked out a quick laugh before falling back into the sheets. “Heh, but that’s a shame. I was hoping to have you all to myself for a bit. Am I to watch our brats while you're out?"

“Our? Be careful with those sentiments of yours, Catherine. We don’t want our host to get the wrong idea.” Shamir eyed her askance, mouth forming a tight line. “But no. There’s another task that requires your attention.”

“Like what?” The former Knight snorted, stretching her limbs. “Do you need me to chop more firewood? Clean out the fire-pit? Soap down the horse?”

“A delivery. It came to Bothild’s attention that she owed the local smith for his assistance, so she made him a pie as requested.” The Dagdan woman canted her head, looking at Catherine with a pointed stare. “She wants you to give it to him, post-haste.”

“You’re joking.” Catherine’s mood took a sour turn. Her hackles raised. “The man would sooner spit on it than accept it from me. And I’d sooner throw it in his face! She does know we’re caught in a row, doesn’t she?”

“She does, but I imagine that matters little to her. In her eyes, paying back a debt supersedes petty squabbles. I would think the same.” Shamir stood before wandering to the taller woman. She cupped her partner’s cheek. “Just hand it to him quickly and get it over with. Surely, that’s not too difficult a task for Thunder Catherine. Or is the prospect too daunting?”

“That’s a low blow, Shamir.”

“Is it? All I hear is a woman whining about running an errand."

Catherine scowled and turned her head to nip her lover’s palm.

“Cheeky. Fine, I’ll do it. But don’t be surprised if I end up decking him.” She leaned up to steal a kiss, lips sliding hard over Shamir’s. Her words came out in sporadic bursts. “I expect a good reward. My services don’t come cheap.”

“How mercenary of you. I’m almost proud.” The Dagdan woman smiled against her mouth. It was a novel feeling, but one Catherine suspected she would never tire of. Shamir pulled away after a moment. “You should get ready for the journey. The ground is icy from the recent freeze, so I’ll be leaving Saloma with you.”

“The horse?” Catherine huffed and scratched her head. "You're setting me up for a shit day. The beast hates me! You know that.”

“Maybe, but I would rather you not break your neck marching through a frozen wood.” Shamir pulled on her gloves, fingers flexing. Her tone was sharp, brokering no complaint. “Thinks of today as one for amends. Try to act civil, for me if nothing else.”

“Understood. Don’t worry.” Catherine waved her off, rising on her hands. She swung her legs to the floor, but her foot caught the edge of Shamir's satchel. The bag tipped onto its side, spilling the contents. "Damn it. So begins a _spectacular_ morning.”

She reached down to collect the various tools, mostly twine and spare rolls of cloth. But underneath the bandages lay a peculiar shape. Metal glinted between the white, peeking in slivers of jagged irregularity. She didn’t quite know what she was looking at until she took the piece in hand. It was Shamir’s dagger, rent from the night they escaped Charon. But why had the Dagdan woman kept the broken weapon? It wasn't like her to stow useless junk. Catherine looked up at her partner, befuddled.

“Hey, did you mean to keep this?” She held the metal shard up to the light, careful not to slice her palm. Shamir’s expression was unreadable. The Dagdan woman stared at the splintered dagger, brow harshly furrowed. Then her face smoothed and she looked away.

“...I forgot It was there; feel free to toss it. I have little need for a shattered blade.”

Catherine blinked at the quick words. Despite the steady inflection, there was a clear tension around her partner's form that hadn’t existed before. She stood, metal in her grip. Another question balanced on her tongue. Suddenly, Shamir snatched the bag and headed for the door.

“You should hurry. I spotted dark clouds on the horizon. We may be in for our first bout of snow.”

With those parting words, the Dagdan woman vanished from view. Alone and uncertain, Catherine looked at the shattered dagger within her hand. It was more grip than anything; unsalvageable as any sort of weapon. The prudent choice would be to throw it away, but she found herself hesitating. Shamir was not a woman prone to sentiment nor particularly absent-minded. She kept the dagger for months. But why?

It was a pretty piece. Old and obviously well-loved. The remaining metal displayed an intricate pattern of folded steel. A shame the blade was completely ruined. Catherine set the piece atop the dresser. Shamir had owned that dagger for as long as she had known her. She would wager it meant more to her partner than the woman would admit. Broken or not. Catherine eyed it for a moment more, wondering at the secrets it held. Then she sighed and shrugged on her tunic.

A certain ornery smith awaited her.

* * *

The forest was still as she rode through the trees. Not a hint of movement could be gleaned from treetop or bramble. The foliage was covered in frost, leaves and bark glittering with ice. Snow had yet to fall, but from the biting chill, its imminence could not be ignored. Despite her complaints, Catherine was glad for the animal beneath her. Attempting to journey through the frosted stretch would have been dangerous. She sat deeper into the saddle, minding the horse’s path.

A plume of smoke guided her eyes forward. Then, the tiled roof of Weyland’s shack came into view. Catherine gripped the reins tight, anxious. She didn’t know how Weyland would receive her presence. The last time they traded words was soundly unpleasant and she doubted her screaming at his door a few days ago helped matters. Some choice epithets had been thrown about in anger; creative but decidedly crude. Admittedly, Catherine regretted letting her ire get the best of her. That sort of behavior was unworthy, especially towards a man who humored her requests.

_A day for amends, is it?_ Catherine exhaled heavily and dropped from the saddle. She would swallow her pride for this brief exchange. She owed him that much. The former Knight rifled through the saddlebags, taking the wrapped pastry in arm. It felt fairly ridiculous, but Bothild's kindness deserved equal favor. Still, she wondered what the Goddess thought as Her former sword was humbled by an old woman and a miserable codger. She strode to the cabin door, chuckling in self-deprecation.

Swiftly, Catherine rapped her knuckles against the flimsy door. She waited in silence, straining to hear any sounds of movement. Yet it was oddly silent; neither footstep nor creaking was heard within. She frowned and knocked again, harder than before. Nonetheless, she received the same result. Somewhat confused, she made her way to the rear. It was possible he was already awake and striking up the forge.

Catherine squinted against the cold wind whipping her face. She spotted the workshop, wooden facade covered in the same sheet of frost as the trees. Yet there was no fire to be seen. She nearly turned on her heel when she spotted a strange mass hunched over the workbench. It took her a moment to recognize Weyland’s lanky frame. His body was inert, back barely moving in even bursts. The man had gone on another bender it seemed.

The former Knight pushed back her hair, exasperated. Then she trudged closer to him, wary of any piles of ale or vomit. The floor looked clean, but she wasn’t taking any chances. As Catherine grasped his shoulder, ready to haul him into the house, he jerked violently. The man swung an arm out, nearly clipping her ear. She ducked and stumbled away from him.

“Kindly don’t manhandle me. It’s too early for that nonsense.” Weyland grunted, raising his head. He turned a flinty gaze to where she stood.

“Pardon me for thinking you drank yourself into a stupor, yet again.” Catherine graced him with a derisive snort and leaned against the forge. The smith glowered at her darkly. His mustache bristled as he sneered.

“I thought I told you to stay away. I knew you were dim, but most would be able to tell when they aren’t welcome.” Weyland thumped his chest as he coughed. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Judging from the reddened skin of his cheek, he had lain there for quite a while. Yet the workshop was clean and his eyes were not bloodshot. If the man hadn’t been drinking, then why was he sitting in the cold? Catherine’s brow knitted. Weyland continued, rousing her from thought.

“If you’ve come to beg for work, you’ll be sorely disappointed. I don’t hire dalcop, southern lasses with no respect.”

“I’m not _begging_ you for anything. Hell, I’d be perfectly happy never seeing your cantankerous ass again.” Catherine straightened and lightly shook the bundle she held. “This is from Bothild. She sent me to give you this, not that you deserve it.”

Weyland eyed her quietly before staring at the wrapped offering. His jaw worked in rhythmic chews.

“She made that? The Sister did?”

“Who else? And don’t worry, I didn’t spit on it. Sorely tempted to, but I wouldn’t enjoy the scolding that would earn.” Catherine set the pie atop the cool grates of the fire basket. Then she moved to leave. “Anyway, enjoy it while you can. Try not to die in a blizzard.”

“Wait.”

She stopped, standing within the workshop entrance. Catherine looked at the man, leery. Weyland wiped his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Come back and sit for a moment.” He sounded tired suddenly, beleaguered in a way she’d never witnessed from him. Despite her reservations, Catherine obeyed. She sat atop a nearby crate, arms crossed and suspicion growing. The man kept his silence, thumbing his mustache. This close, Catherine could see the drawn cast to his features. His cheeks were shadowed, rough with grizzle and cold.

A large hand tapped against the workbench and her eyes were drawn to the objects resting near. Along with the usual tools and bits of scrap, a curious wooden figure garnered her attention. It was the same carved dog she saw within his home. Catherine arched a brow inquisitively.

“I never took you for a whittler. You’re a good craftsman, but you don’t strike me as particularly creative.” She looked to him, gauging his reaction. Weyland's face pinched, but the anticipated defensiveness never came. He grabbed the figure and pressed a thumb to its snout.

“Not my doing. I would never waste my time on something so pointless.” The statement was sharp, but not filled with malice. His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was an undercurrent Catherine could not quite parse. "My son made these.”

“Your…?” She drew back, stunned. “I didn’t realize you had a family.”

“You know nothing about me, girl. I’ve said this before.” He bowed his head, staring hard at the tiny carving. “My son wasn’t anything like me. He had no talent for metal, and no respect for it neither. The boy was soft, something he got from his mother.”

Weyland placed the dog carefully, letting it nestle within a rag.

“But he could work wood like no other. I thought he’d take to carpentry, an honest living by all means. Yet he spurned that too. He would rather idle away his days whittling tiny animals than make a wage. It was infuriating, but that was just how he was. The boy always had his head in the clouds.”

Catherine watched him, unsure why he was revealing so much to her. But she assumed he had his reasons, so she kept her silence. After a lengthy pause, the man rubbed his eyes.

“He was a dreamer. If he wasn’t busying himself with wood he had his nose buried in books. When times were better, I used to bring him as many I could find. The market of Fhirdiad never lacked for them. Cost me a tidy sum, but I knew it made him happy. Didn’t stop me from cursing my late wife for teaching him. What sort of boy needs to read when he should hold either hammer or sword?” Weyland’s throat flexed as he swallowed. “He was a soft lad with no common sense. But he was my son.”

“What happened?” Catherine dared to ask. She observed as his jaw bunched.

“What do you _think_ happened? The fool got it into his head that he could fix things. Change Faerghus for the better; the sort of dangerous idiocy that learning gets you.” He waved his hand in agitation. “He comes to me one day, all piss and vinegar, and speaks about how some southern lord is raising an army. That this man knew the Church was corrupted and he wished to follow him. It was lunacy! And all of it coming from a boy who barely knew how to hold a kitchen knife.”

“A southern lord...” The former Knight frowned, thoughts shifting as comprehension sparked. “You mean Lord Lonato of Gaspard. Your son joined his militia?”

“Not immediately, and if I had my way he wouldn’t have at all.” Weyland sat heavily in his chair, gaze pinned to the ceiling. He appeared distant, unreachable. “I forbade him from going. It was trouble that didn’t concern us, so why should we care? But he wouldn’t hear it. Every day he prodded and begged, even daring to ask for me to come too. In the end, I lost my patience and told him to leave. 'It's your life, and you're free to ruin it,' I shouted. The next day, I found my horse and my son gone."

The smith fell quiet then. His mouth pursed, stare vacant. A tense moment passed before he blinked and changed his focus to Catherine.

“News came months after, about that failed uprising. Bodies were left to rot where they fell and the Church offered no comfort. Traitors of the faith were not to be honored.”

“I—” Catherine looked at him, fumbling with that to say. Reflexively, an apology slipped free. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not looking for any condolences. Did you hold the sword that cut him down? Did you watch as he bled out on that field?” His expression hardened the longer he spoke. “It’s a nasty thing when faith breaks. I couldn’t trust the Church after that, and every word of peace from the Archbishop felt like a lie. My boy was good and kind. Naive, but what youth isn’t? He didn’t deserve to be put down like a dog. Yet the Goddess didn’t know his nature. If she did, he wouldn’t be dead.”

The former Knight didn’t counter his claim. It wasn’t her place and she knew he wouldn’t want to hear it. However, the condemnation felt like a pit in her chest, as was the knowledge of what became of Lonato’s men. _Was it me? Did I take him from you?_ Catherine couldn’t be sure. There were many young men she slaughtered that day. Until now, she had been content with that knowledge. Her hand curled around her bicep as Catherine stewed in her regret. The discomfort in her gut strengthened as Weyland passed a hand over his eyes.

“I blamed the Church for a long while. But what did that change? Nothing. My rage would mean nothing to them. Then I placed my anger upon that lord, Lonato. It was his words that stirred my boy’s heart. It was by his order that he gave his life for a fruitless cause.” The smith lifted his upper lip, twisting his mouth into a fierce snarl. "I hated his carelessness. But he too, would not feel this fire in my soul. The man was dead, along with the boys he led to their graves. Uprising? What a farce.”

“Weyland,” Catherine interjected, speaking low and careful. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Who knows? Maybe I’m just losing my wits. Maybe I just want you to understand.” He shrugged mightily, avoiding her gaze. “That day you took me inside, you touched this figure on my mantle.”

“I did.” She searched his face, unable to tell what emotion colored those dark eyes. “Not with any ill-intent, I assure you.”

“Thought as much. Still, it bothered me greatly.” Weyland thumbed the carving once more. “These little animals… they’re all I have left of him. My boy. You could spend twenty years loving and raising, but it can all end in a single night. All undone with a few harsh words.”

His hand formed a fist and he brought it to his mouth. Then he bit into the skin.

“It took me months before I could face the truth. Neither the Church nor Lonato was to blame for my son's death. It was me and my quick temper. The pain of that gutted me.”

“You didn’t force him to take up a sword. Nor did you make him heed Lonato’s call.”

“Didn’t I? I could have stopped him. Made him understand how foolish it all was; how futile. Instead, I screamed in his face and told him to leave.” Weyland broke into a stuttering cough. He made a gargling rasp before spitting violently into the dirt. “Don’t tell me otherwise, girl. I know damn well what happened. I may not have held the blade, but I allowed it to be placed to his neck.”

“You’re wrong.”

Weyland scowled at her, expression venomous. She bore the brunt of it, holding his stare evenly.

“I knew a man like your son, a close friend who detested the absolute power of the Church. He was earnest and brave. However, he was cut down fighting for the change he believed in.” Thoughts of Christophe and his last moments intruded, but she did not shy from the past. Catherine embraced the harrowing memory, recalling the exact moment when the sword pierced him through. The weight of his body, the smell of his blood; she faced it all. Cassandra, who had killed him. Different name, but still undeniably her.

“For the longest time, I believed I could have stopped him. I thought I could change his mind or persuade him into accepting the same path as I had. However, not everyone sees the world with the same eyes. My friend and your son, they both saw a rot others couldn’t. And in the end, people will do what they will. You couldn’t have stopped him, not if it was truly what he wanted. Just as I couldn’t.”

She paused, taking in the smith’s face. His features were stone, pensive but undeniably rapt.

“They chose to fight for what they believed, against Church and Crown law. That takes a great amount of courage. Far more than I ever had. It doesn’t bring them back, nothing will, but I want to think they were content with their choice.”

Weyland did not speak after she was done. He sat in his chair, motionless for a prolonged period. It was hard to tell what thoughts were flying through his mind. Then, like a statue coming to life, he stirred. The man swallowed visibly, jaw twitching. His voice came out in a thick rasp.

“Came up with that all on your own, did you?”

“No,” Catherine denied. Her eyes fell to her boots. “I thought like you for years. But a lovely woman knocked some sense into me. She’s made me think about all sorts of crazy things.”

“They’ll do that.” Weyland nodded faintly. “Hmph. I can’t say I entirely agree. Years of guilt cannot be cast aside so neatly. Yet...”

The man trailed off, glancing at the figure.

“I would like to think he died at peace with his decision. He was too good to be trapped by his regrets.”

“I want to think the same.” Christophe died on the blade she held. Nonetheless, Catherine had made her decision as did he. It was only an inevitable clash between opposing wills. If he had changed his mind so easily, he would not have been the boy she knew. Till the end, Christophe was always true to himself. She had envied him for that, but now she could do the same. The time for lies and self-deception was over. Catherine blinked as the smith rose to his feet.

“All that gab has made my joints lock. Damnable chill.” He twisted his back, spine popping. “Grab the sparker from my cabin. I think I left it near the fire-pit. We need to get started on forging the wagon axle.”

“You... want me to help?” She asked, hesitant.

“Did I mumble, girl? Am I not speaking Fόdlanic?” He waved her off before scratching his chin. “This job’s too great for me alone. You were right about that much. Now stop gawping and get the fire going. I’ll not ask again.”

Catherine stood, eyeing him for a time. When it was clear Weyland would not change his mind, she allowed a tentative grin to rise to her lips.

“As you say.”

* * *

_The battle of the Tailtean had been preceded by a month of uncertainty and discord. Morale was thin, dealt a great blow by the loss of Arianrhod and Lord Rodrigue. The man had been a symbol of a Kingdom long gone; once peaceful and prosperous in the shadow of King Lambert. A great friend of the crown and loyal to the last, Lord Rodrigue’s caliber was unquestionable. Most of all, the Lord was the last tie to the present King and his father. Their bond was an unspoken one, but everyone knew how Dimitri revered Rodrigue. With the heir to Fraldarius’ defection, the Lord saw in the King another son._

_Was it any wonder that his death fanned the flames of Dimitri’s wroth? No one was surprised by his sudden decision to storm the Empire head-on. One last great stand upon the same field his ancestor once took. It had all the makings of a grand tale, Blaiddyd against Hresvelg. Former Kingdom heirs turned traitor. Church against heretics. Yet Catherine knew the truth was often bloodier and ignoble than the songs made it seem. Her own story bore the evidence of that. However, she said nothing when the Archbishop gave the order to follow. If this was the Goddess’ will, then so be it._

_On the eve of their departure, Catherine observed the King waiting by the main gate. He and his men were to ride ahead to the Tailtean and establish a fortifying line. Then, the Archbishop would lead a flanking charge to the Emperor's forces. It was not a terrible plan, but a nagging disquiet sat in the Knight's belly. The Empire had proven itself time and time again. Would they be felled by mere right of history? She wanted to believe in Lady Rhea... Seiros' judgment, more than anything. Yet–_

_**No**. Their plan must succeed. For the Archbishop. For King Dimitri. For her **family**. The snake must fall here. Catherine steeled herself, walking forward to lead her men. But as she neared the gate, she heard the distinct rumblings of an argument. She squinted through the line of horses, making out the golden curls of a certain Duke._

_“...think of what you’re doing, Dimitri! You would be leaving Fhirdiad vulnerable.”_

_“I know what I’m doing, Uncle. Don’t presume to tell me otherwise.” The King was resplendent in his armor. As he sat atop his white horse, garbed in blue and black, he looked every bit a monarch chosen by the Goddess. There was a reminiscent edge to his frame; just as tall and regal as the man who came before him. But Lambert had never shared the same wild-eyed fervor. “I will not fall today or the next. If you lack faith in that, then scurry home to Itha.”_

_“Dimitri, please reconsider. Should you fall—”_

_“We’re going in circles and I tire of your complaints. Fall in line and obey. Your King demands it.” He turned his mount with an imperious swirl of his cape. Dimitri rode away from the other man, never looking back. His soldiers followed dutifully, paying no mind to the Duke glowering at the form of his departing nephew. Rufus shook his head before casting a look over the gathered Church troops. Dark blue eyes fell upon the watching Knight._

_“Ser Catherine.” The man stomped up to her, his tone clipped._

_“Duke Blaiddyd.” Catherine tilted her head in acknowledgment, forcing her expression to remain unruffled. There was no love lost between them, even after all these years. She knew he despised her and the Archbishop’s pardon had done little to change that. It was strange he addressed her somewhat pleasantly; a sharp change from the disgusted sneers he typically favored._

_“You will be riding with my nephew, won’t you?” The question came out in a rush, sounding more demand than anything. Catherine narrowed her eyes, plastering on a tight grin._

_“Kingdom forces will be taking point, but yes. The Church will assist His Majesty.”_

_“And will you also take the field?”_

_“It’s a distinct possibility, but I bow to Lady Rhea’s whim.” Catherine leaned back on her heel, staring warily at the Duke. “Why do you ask?”_

_“Dimitri, the **King**, refuses to see reason." The man glanced at the marching soldiers, disdain plain. "He's bringing his men in full force but with Arianrhod's loss, our numbers have been halved. The lords of Fraldarius have surrendered; as have those of Rowe, Gaspard, and Charon. The Empire has no such troubles."_

_“Do you lack faith in your King?”_

_“Faith will not keep my nephew alive. Nor will it prevent the Empire from seizing Fhirdiad.” Rufus straightened, cutting his eyes to the Knight. “We do not have the numbers, our weapon stores have been weeping for months, yet he wants to end it in one fell swoop. If he falls on that plain, Faerghus will be thrown into chaos.”_

_“The Archbishop won’t let that happen.” Catherine frowned at him but hid it quickly. She was unwilling to let him see how his words affected her. There was truth to them, loathe as she was to admit it. The Kingdom was not at full strength; nowhere near._

_“Lady Rhea is consumed with her quest for vengeance. Neither is thinking clearly and all because of one woman." The Duke crossed his arms, scowl deepening. "My brother would never have acted like this. If Lambert could see his son now, he would weep."_

_“Careful with that loose tongue of yours, Duke Blaiddyd; lest it get you into trouble.” The Knight stepped forward, rolling her shoulders. Her hand slid casually to her sword. “Lady Rhea is guided only by the Goddess. Nothing so petty as revenge would cloud her reason. I can’t say the same for the King, but I don’t imagine your brother would appreciate you insulting his son.”_

_“I speak an objective truth. My nephew is young, easily led by his passions. It is my duty as his regent to guide him.” Rufus’ dark stare landed on her relic. He took a wary step backward. “That does not change now that he’s assumed the throne. It is concern for him that spurs my tongue, nothing more.”_

_He paused a moment before continuing._

_“But I digress. I didn’t approach you to discuss my nephew’s questionable logic. I came to ask for a favor.”_

_“A favor? From you to me?” Catherine erupted into a bellowing laugh. “Now that’s a surprise. I didn’t realize we had progressed to bosom buddies.”_

_“This isn’t a laughing matter.” Frustration painted across his features. He was a plain man, by the standards of most Blaiddyd men. Unremarkable and drab. But the fiery anger he displayed then reminded her of Dimitri. Perchance Rufus was more similar to his nephew than first assumed. “You may have relinquished your name and title, but you are still a daughter of Charon. Crest-born and raised in fealty to the Crown. To the King.”_

_“What’s your point?”_

_“You are not just a Knight of Seiros. You were the heir to Charon once. A Lord in your own right who would have ridden in service to the same King as I.” The Duke stooped, not without great reluctance. Still, the motion took her off-guard. “So I am asking you to please protect my nephew. Watch over him as the bannerman you should have been.”_

_Catherine stared at him, bravado draining in favor of astonishment. She had never dreamed of the Duke to ask her for anything. Yet his plea did not resonate with her. It couldn’t, not when her life was pledged to divine service. Cassandra would have embraced this duty eagerly. But Catherine, Knight before anything else, felt nothing. So she smirked and shouldered passed the man without a second thought._

_“You’re right, Duke Blaiddyd. I was all of that once, but no longer. I am a Knight of Seiros now. And as a servant of the Goddess, I heed neither King nor country.” Catherine leapt atop her stallion, flashing a humorless smile; all teeth. “If She favors him, you will have nothing to fear.”_

_Then the Knight spurred her mount onward, not deigning to glance at him again. It would be a lie to say she didn’t enjoy rejecting him. Perhaps spite influenced her more than she would have admitted. Yet she hadn’t lied to him in the slightest. Catherine would not abandon her duty in the name of some misguided sense of obligation. The King’s fate was out of her hands._

_She told herself this assumption with each day that passed. And again, as his reckoning finally came.** It was in Her plan,** Catherine insisted in private.** Everything was as the Goddess willed.** When the Church soldiers returned to Fhirdiad, defeat weighing heavily, she spotted the golden head of Rufus atop the palace steps. His face was indistinct from where she stood, but his color was distinctly ashen. It was the last she saw of him. The day after, word spread that he retreated to Itha and surrendered to imperial law._

_With that, a dynasty centuries in the making fled from their seat of power and the Kingdom of Faerghus was no more._

* * *

Catherine stared over the rolling hills of Gautier, rousing from those distant days. Only a smattering of months ago, yet it felt like a lifetime. She hadn’t given that encounter much thought before. The guilt she had felt was ephemeral, easily consumed by the tumult of Fhirdiad. However, once she allowed herself to consider it, the weight of the Duke’s request was finally felt. She bore no fondness for the man, but sympathy intruded where only apathy had dwelled.

It was common knowledge man had begged the King for weeks to reconsider. Yet Dimitri would not be swayed. Privately, Catherine had thought him a fool. Lady Rhea might have been guided by forces beyond mortal ken, but the King could not say the same. If he was to walk willingly into the jaws of death, blinded by hatred, then who was she to stop him? Catherine had been right, but not for the reasons first thought.

Perhaps he had not been blinded by anything. Perhaps he had known all along what it would mean to take the Tailtean that day. And just like Christophe, he went to his fate regardless. Was it merely an aspect of Faerghian men? Catherine mulled the notion over but found it lacking. No, that drive was not singular in them. It was as she told Weyland.

They saw something wrong in the world. The Church for Christophe and the smith’s son. And to them, it was a poison they could not abide. The same she had seen but chosen to ignore. The same the Emperor witnessed but had the power to strip away. It was loathsome, to think of that girl being similar to her fallen friend. Yet the comparison was undeniable, as it was in regard to her own choices in life. And just like Edelgard, Christophe, and a brave boy she had never met; Catherine had followed her heart.

The Rhodos and everything that happened after… She had despaired that day for years yet regret never truly took root. Guilt, certainly, but if she were to reflect on her actions Catherine couldn’t say she would choose differently. At the core of her, she knew it to be just. She could not have stood idle, even knowing the cost. Lugh had made his decision the moment he confronted her, as did she. Her choice meant that innocent people would not be slain. Catherine, the Knight, had only seen the dishonor that action brought her. But now, she could see the good that had been done. _A need to uproot the rot? Perhaps I can understand that desire_. Catherine inhaled deeply and the wind scored her throat.

Yet there had been those who failed to reach the same conclusion. Dimitri placed the ills of the world on Edelgard. He too fought with conviction burning in his heart. The difference lay in the result. Whether the Emperor’s desire for change was greater than his need for justice was moot. She won and history would bend to suit that. However, for the first time since Fhirdiad’s fall, Catherine could not begrudge her this. Lady Rhea had also made her stand. And she too fell beneath the Emperor’s axe.

The Goddess had made Her choice. And she had found disfavor with Her supposed champions. Perhaps She held that same desire for change and guided the Emperor’s hand. If that were true… Catherine shook her head and turned away from the hillside. She tugged the reins in her hand, leading Saloma toward the chapel.

Mulling over the past had placed her friend’s actions into perspective, as well as her own. But considering the will of a divine being was fruitless. Catherine refused to fall into the same trappings she did before. The former Knight was but a woman trying to live her life. A queer happenstance, what with her bloody history, but if the Goddess allowed it she was determined to stay on this path.

A beautiful sight greeted her on arrival. Shamir stood on the chapel porch, a visage in shades of white and purple. As Catherine dismounted, the Dagdan woman walked close. She looked poised to say something but was quickly stopped by her partner. Catherine held Shamir tight and lifted her into a firm embrace. Then she kissed her, long and deep, savoring the feel of her frame. Even garbed in unflattering robes, Catherine yearned for this woman intensely. But maybe, that was just a symptom of love. She pulled away as Shamir pushed gently against her shoulders.

“You’re in a better mood.” The Dagdan woman stared at her analytically. Violet eyes ran over her face. “Any particular reason for that?”

“I'm just happy." Catherine grinned, wide as she could manage. Her heart thundered in her chest. "When I saw you... I don't know. It just hit me."

“Hmm.” Shamir gave a thoughtful hum. Her sharp expression gentled. “Good.”

She rose on her toes and their lips met again. Catherine sank into her easily, settling like metal in water. Hands grazed the side of her throat before tangling within her hair. It was something that might become routine and she thrilled at the possibility. Catherine wanted to take her inside and share the happiness buzzing beneath her skin, but her partner pulled away. She blinked, befuddled, as Shamir moved out of reach.

“I assume things went well with the smith. If they didn’t, I doubt you would be so cheery.” The Dagdan woman smoothed the wrinkles from her clothing. Once satisfied, she swept her fingers across her brow, pushing aside a stray lock. “Am I right?”

“We made amends, even finished fixing that wagon." Catherine looked at the stretch of trees behind her. "He never said anything officially, but I don't think he'll turn me away again. Heh, good thing too. Work is going to be piling up soon."

She turned back to Shamir with a carefree smile.

“It’ll be a hard winter, but if I can find a way to get supplies to Culann we should be able to make it to spring. I’ll have to ask around, but maybe—”

“Spring?” Violet eyes thinned. “Catherine, we’re not staying until the spring.”

“I...” The former Knight hesitated, words catching in her throat. Shamir eyed her intently, mouth pursed.

“The bridge is nearly finished. As long as a blizzard doesn't strike, we should be free to travel into Sreng. I want to put as much distance as we can between us and imperial soldiers." Shamir glanced at her feet before peering up at the taller woman. "That's still the plan, isn't it?"

“Yeah.” Catherine looked to the side. She cleared her throat with a cough. “Sorry. I got a bit ahead of myself there.”

“...It’s fine.” Shamir’s lips parted slightly, but whatever she was ready to say never came. The Dagdan woman sighed before walking to the chapel doors. “We should head in. The temperature is dropping fast.”

Catherine watched her leave, smile dimmed. She moved to follow, but something cold kissed her temple. A faint sensation of water trickled down her cheek. She looked at the sky, taking in the vast covering of dark clouds. Hovering on the wind were swirls of white speckling the blanket of grey. Winter had arrived at last.

That night, as ice began to form and snow dusted the sills, they all gathered around the fire-pit. The children were excited by the change in weather, all too eager to play once the morning came. Connla far more than his demure sister, but Aife's eyes were curiously bright as she stared at the falling flakes. Bothild's spirits were similarly high and the nun moved with a vigor that had been absent for days.

Shamir was quiet, as was her wont, but Catherine spotted her lips curve into a smile more than once. The atmosphere surrounding them was intimate, calm and steady as the lazy descent of ice. At their feet, a fire crackled pleasantly. Catherine stoked the logs, chuckling fondly as Connla expounded his winter plans.

“I’m going to build the tallest snowman. High as a horse! Wait, I should build a snow-horse and make it look like Saloma.” The boy tapped his palms along his calves, staring keenly at the nearest window. “Or maybe a dragon. I always wanted to see a dragon. You think they’re as big as the stories say, Cassia?”

“I would say so. Although, in my personal experience, wyverns serve just as well. Smaller for certain, but a bit friendlier." Catherine blinked away the memory of a bestial roar amid arching flames. The Lady's grotesque transformation was a horror best forgotten. "I'll help you make one if you like. Shouldn't be too difficult. I imagine the wings would be the toughest bit."

“That would be great!" Connla faced his sister with a toothy grin. "Since me and Cassia are making a wyvern you can make the horse, Aife. Then we can see who makes the best snow animals."

“That’s not fair. I can’t make things by myself.” The girl balked and cringed. “It always falls apart. Then you make fun of me.”

“I won’t this time. I promise.”

“Lair.”

“Children, settle down. I won’t have you starting an argument on such a nice evening.” Bothild clicked her tongue as she scolded them. “If the two of you are going to make anything, best not to bring competition into it. Let it be a fun activity and nothing more.”

She stole a look in Shamir’s direction.

“However, Aife is right. She should have a helper as well. What say you, Shay? Would you mind helping her?”

Catherine watched her partner flinch, clearly caught unaware by the offer. The Dagdan woman’s brows slanted with consternation. Then she turned her head, meeting Catherine’s eyes. The former Knight shrugged, biting back an amused laugh. Shamir was hardly ever at a loss, but when it came to small children she seemed out of her depth. Maybe it was unkind, but Catherine enjoyed seeing her cheeks pink with embarrassment. After a moment, Shamir exhaled sharply.

“I don’t mind. We’ll make quick work of it.” She offered the young girl a confident stare. “My eye for detail is unmatched. I imagine our creation will be sturdier than anything Cassia makes.”

“Oho! Are you trying to challenge me, Shay? I’ll have you know that I could pack down snow better than anyone in Charon. I was the envy of my siblings.”

“I suppose we’ll see when the morning comes.” Shamir’s mouth curved into a smile. “You talk a good game but we both know you’re all bluster. When given a proper challenge you fold.”

“Tell that to every idiot who has dared to out drink me. I don’t just accept challenges. I conquer them.” Catherine leaned in, holding her partner’s even gaze. “I’ll make a wyvern so grand you’ll be eating your words.”

“Just my words?”

“It would be a start.”

Bothild cleared her throat, interrupting them soundly. Both women looked at her, broken from their shared bubble.

“Be mindful of impressionable ears, ladies. This sort of talk is best left for when you're alone." The nun clapped her hands, drawing the attention of her wards. "Speaking of wyverns, I think I can recall a certain story where a princess befriends one. Would you all like to hear it?"

Connla nodded vehemently, already scurrying to sit closer to her. His sister followed, slower but no less keen. Bothild commanded their attention masterfully and soon both were lost in the tale she spun. Catherine only paid the scantest of attention. She chuckled under her breath as the nun mimed a draconic roar. Her enraptured audience shrank in response, their eyes wide. The former Knight relaxed into her seat, heels resting by dancing flames.

Suddenly, a hand was placed on her thigh. She looked at her partner, but Shamir’s eyes were focused on the others. The woman’s grip tightened, reassuring and firm. Catherine felt her pulse leap, ever conscious of any move Shamir made. The feeling from before welled up in her chest and spread across the whole of her. Love and something that she could not quite define. Yet it was familiar all the same; akin to a half-remembered dream. Or maybe, just the memory of a family long gone.

Catherine cast her eyes over the room, taking in these people she had grown so fond of. This town. This chapel. These kids and their caretaker. The work and purpose she had found here. Did she really want to leave it all behind? In truth, Catherine knew exactly what answer she would give. Though it had not started as such, she could recognize the peace this place brought her. To abandon that now would be cowardice. Catherine was tired of fleeing from the Empire’s shadow. If they came in search of her, so be it. But… What of Shamir? What did her partner want?

Her eyes moved to the other woman. Shamir’s features were relaxed, lips tipped into a familiar smirk. She looked wonderfully at easy, more than a thousand other nights under the towering arches of Garreg Mach. Catherine wanted to engrave that expression in her memory. Yes, this was worth preserving. She would convince her. Not just for herself, but for the life she knew they could both have. Catherine took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. Then she allowed her hand to rest atop Shamir’s, fingers curling over pale skin.

**Next Chapter: Quench**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ah, this was a nice chapter, wasn't it? It felt nice to write them being happy for a change. But stay alert, folks, just cause the Cathmir boat is sailing doesn't mean we're not in for a bumpy ride. Not too bumpy though, I promise. Not too much to explain here, but I will say that it's going to get interesting when Shamir's pov hits. I can't wait for you all to see what I have in store! Thank you for the continued interest and for being such great readers. I would love to hear any thoughts~ AdraCat


	15. Quench (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surrounded by winter and a land not her own, a Dagdan woman considers her place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks and much love to my beta, johnxfire <3

Despite the calm assertions she had made to the contrary, Shamir knew precious little about snow. It did not fall regularly in Dagda and never in her village. Her home had been a stone’s throw from the sea, in the looming shadow of the great city of Shinar. The coast only heard whispers of ice; hushed words from grumbling traders and wistful sailors. As a girl with no aspirations to travel northward, Shamir didn’t find the concept appealing. The crisp, ocean breeze was cool enough for her liking.

So it was that her first true experience with the cold came upon her arrival to Fόdlan. It had been in the dead of winter and in a single night, she learned to revile it. The air was heavy with frost, sharp as a nail across her palate. The chill clung to her bones with oppressive weight, sitting deep in the marrow. It was an experience she recalled keenly. _Wrapped in sparse cloth and shivering the night with her back to the fire pit; desperate to leech any heat she could. Yet the flames did little to soothe the vicious draft that cut across her brow._

If nothing else, Shamir learned to respect Fόdlan's winter months. But the fierce bite was nowhere to be seen in the arms of her lover. Catherine burned hot as the sun and stayed twice as long. Precious heat emanated from her skin in constant waves, something Shamir had known from the first night they shared a camp. When their partnership was new, she would wait until the Knight was asleep before venturing closer. If Catherine found it odd how their bedding would migrate in the night, she never made mention.

Later, once camaraderie had smoothed the edges of unfamiliarity, Shamir gave up the pretense. It had become a common thing to wake against the solid presence of her partner’s form. The Knight’s breath would fan across her temple, slow and steady. She knew the rhythm intimately, relishing every exhale. It was preferable to the harsh winds by far, though Shamir had never dreamed of revealing this opinion to the other woman. Perhaps she should have known then how deep her affection would run. Their ties to each other had been greater than most, and the intimacies they exchanged went beyond the point of perfunctory regard.

Truthfully, their relationship had changed little since. Only now, instead of cautiously stealing warmth, Shamir could boldly seek it. And so she did without reserve, but the current moment put a damper on those plans. She pursed her lips as a ball of snow hit her arm. The Dagdan woman bristled, dusting off the half-melted flakes. A few paces away, Catherine laughed.

“You need to dodge, not stand there like a rabbit in a snare.” The former Knight crouched low and scooped another mound of snow into her hands. “Shall we give this another try? I promise not to aim for your pretty face.”

“I have little interest in prancing around while you pelt me with ice.” Shamir sent her partner a venomous glare and eyed gloved hands warily. “You should reconsider throwing that. Unless you like sleeping alone?”

“Fine, fine! I’ll stay my hand." Catherine snorted before letting the ball crumple between her fingers. Her lips slanted into a pout. "It’s just a bit of harmless fun. You might even enjoy yourself.”

“Doubtful.” The Dagdan woman shifted her attention. The two children were off playing happily in the frosted wood. Connla was lobbing snow at his sister as expected, but Aife was not without her defenses. The girl was fast and had a keen sense of her brother's whereabouts. Despite her initial reticence, she gave as good as she got. One particularly sharp throw had the boy sputtering through a face full of snow. Shamir heard Catherine chuckle.

“At least the kids seem to be having fun. Heh, Connla might have a challenge on his hands. The girl has got quite the arm on her.” The taller woman sidled close, rubbing her neck thoughtfully. “A shame we couldn’t persuade Bothild to join us. The brisk air would do her some good.”

“She’s still recovering. Wandering out into the cold would only delay that.” Shamir sighed; trails of steam followed quickly after. “I’m sure she’s having a nice rest by the fire. The real shame is that I’m not joining her.”

“Come now, don’t be such a killjoy. You could stand to relax a bit more. The first snow is always something to celebrate.” Catherine paused, appearing to reconsider the assertion. “Ah, perhaps not always. I’m sure the farmers don’t greet it warmly. But in Charon, we had a grand time building forts and the like.”

“You were nobility with the luxury that status brings. While others struggled in winter, you thought of it as a fun diversion.” Shamir dusted off her coat, nose wrinkling. “When I see snow, I think of starvation and death. Nothing grows beneath ice.”

“Ha! That’s a dour way of looking at it.”

Shamir blinked, caught unaware as her partner wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She settled as Catherine pressed close, body heat traveling neatly. The former Knight smiled, wide and broad.

“You’re in a mood today, aren’t you? Let me guess, you’re peeved that I dragged you out of bed and into the cold.”

“Perhaps. You could also say I’m displeased that you saw fit to do all this at the cusp of dawn. The snow would have hardly disappeared in a few hours time.” Shamir relaxed into her partner’s frame. She struggled to keep her expression placid, unwilling to betray her mounting relief. Suddenly, she was grateful for the other woman’s larger stature. She made an excellent shield against the wind. A scoff ripped through Catherine's chest.

“Maybe not, but it would soon turn to a slurry if the weather takes a warm turn. Besides, the best snow is when it’s freshly fallen. Wait too long and it’ll be too difficult to do much with.” The former Knight’s voice was wistful as she explained, words oddly airy. Shamir peered at her partner’s face. There was a nostalgic gleam beneath the humor.

“You’re fond of it; the winter,” she observed. Catherine dipped her head, brow creasing. Then, she nodded in acceptance.

“I suppose I am. However, that might only be for the memories it brings. My father didn’t care for idling, but he had a soft spot for snow. Whenever it would fall he would let us have the run of the estate. My siblings were all quite different in temperament, but not a single one hated the winter.” Catherine’s throat worked as she swallowed. Her mouth twisted. “Things are different now, but I can’t deny it’s nice to think of those days.”

She sent Shamir a prying look.

“I know Dagda is pretty far to the south, so snow might not have been possible. But you must have played with your siblings. Maybe with sand instead?”

“If you're asking if we threw it at each other, then no. We never diverted ourselves with frivolous games." Shamir folded her arms, hands flexing within leather. The temperature was low enough to make her fingers numb. Irritation bled into her tone. "Our village was near the coast. On the rare occasion my parents did not need me, I would walk up and down the shore. At times, one of my brothers would join me. But we never did anything more than watch the waves."

“So you were always serious, huh?” Catherine’s expression fell slightly. “I’m kinda disappointed. I was hoping to hear about when you were wild and young.”

“Am I suddenly a crone now?" Shamir rolled her eyes. "Perhaps I didn't indulge in the same things you did, but I had my moments. If I had been the tame daughter my parents wished I would have never set off as a mercenary. Choice might be a deciding factor in Dagdan culture, but there were still expectations. I ignored them all in favor of my own wants."

“Quite the little rebel then. No wonder Byleth took a shine to you.” Catherine’s grip tightened. There was a bitter edge in the sentiment that couldn’t be ignored. Shamir glanced at her, conscious of the fact that not all wounds were mended. Catherine had lost too much in the war to forgive easily. Upon noticing her inspection, the former Knight offered a tight grin. “I guess warmer weather is more your thing. Other than watching the water, did you do anything else on the beach?”

“In the warmer months, I would swim. In the cold, I would search the horizon. Boats came often through the bay and the sails would be a tapestry of color. At sunset, they would blend with the sky." Shamir's eyes fell to the snow, a blanket of white sparsely broken by shades of brown. "My village was poor and dye was reserved for those who could afford it. It was a status symbol, typically only seen among the city populace. For most of my life, those boats were the most colorful things I had ever seen."

“I've never considered how different social classes might think of color." Catherine's brow knit as she seemed to ponder the concept. "Faerghus favors practicality, but many lords would spend gold like water to bedeck their horses in vivid tack."

“We grew up in contrary environments. It’s natural.” Shamir watched as the children continued their game. Connla was on the search for his sister, arm poised above fiery curls. The scarf he wore billowed behind him, knitted plain and in the taupe hue of cotton. “I could be occasionally childish. I used to dream of where those boats would go and what sights they would see. Later, I realized that I wanted to see them too. It was that wish that encouraged me to leave.”

“So you nurtured a desire to explore the world. I can understand that.” Catherine dipped her head as she placed her lips to Shamir’s cheek. The Dagdan woman felt the warmth of her exhale as she spoke again. “And did you get your fill of wandering? Did you ever find something that made you want to stay?”

Shamir hummed thoughtfully. She turned in her partner’s arms before staring up into Catherine’s face. As she took in her features, it dawned on her that the blanched environment favored the woman’s coloring. Her skin appeared darker against the pale, and her eyes were uncommonly bright beneath the golden sweep of her bangs. Catherine offered a curious smile, teeth glinting like the surrounding ice.

Perhaps there was some merit to this climate if it highlighted her lover’s features so beautifully. She was as fine and lovely as those sails Shamir had marveled over, but where they had been beyond her reach… Shamir leaned up, capturing Catherine’s smile. She swallowed it whole and embraced the notion that all of this was hers. Her hand slid within her partner’s coat, relishing the heat against her palm. Catherine’s chest rumbled with a groan when Shamir pulled away.

“Maybe." The Dagdan woman pushed back her hair as a stern wind swept by. She ignored Catherine's huff of frustration. "I liked Brigid, for the most part. It was different from Dagda in many ways, but some similarities made the culture more palatable than others. From what I saw, the royal family was well-liked and the people were content with their rule. Still, the Empire's influence couldn't be ignored. It marked their shore just as easily as it did ours. I found it interesting they carried more resentment for the loss than Dagda ever did."

“Are you saying your people didn’t care? That sounds… unlikely.”

“Dagda respects strength, military might most of all. The leaders of each principality underestimated the scope of Adrestian forces and were soundly crushed." Shamir tensed, rankling at the recollection. "I wouldn't say we were content with the result; only that we understood our position. We faced a foe we could not conquer and submitted to mitigate the damage. However, the circumstances of Brigid's surrender were more personal."

“Then I’m surprised that princess of theirs supported Edelgard. You would think she would leap at the chance to cut the Empire down.” Catherine tilted her head, looking bemused.

“Petra knew her place. More importantly, she knew how to use it to her advantage.” Shamir thought of the aforementioned girl, remembering the scant times they shared words. The Princess had been young, but she was not a fool; something most seemed to overlook when hearing her broken speech. “She could have chosen to ignore her status as a political hostage and backed the Church, but it would have been a gamble. Instead, she threw her lot in with the Emperor. That proved the more prudent choice.”

“Temperance over spite, eh?” The former Knight lashed a tongue over her teeth. “I feel like I learned all the wrong lessons growing up.”

“I would wager you learned whatever lessons that were needed of someone of your station. And had your life gone as planned, you would have been none the wiser." Shamir heard a triumphant cry come from the west. Her gaze stopped upon the jubilant form of Aife who was beaming over a snow drenched figure at her feet. The girl had gotten the better of her brother it seemed. Connla might have been stronger by far, but it was clear the girl had a better eye. "There's value in knowing where you stand in this world. Where you belong, most of all."

“Belonging...” Catherine noticeably drifted. Her focus strayed to the children before settling somewhere to the south. Her hand curled around Shamir’s waist. “I thought I knew what that meant once. It’s only now that I truly understand what it means.”

She drew away and Shamir was struck by the sudden gravity of her expression.

“Do you think we could ever belong in a place like this?”

Despite the prior conversation, Shamir was taken by surprise. She stared at her partner, hesitant and bewildered. Truthfully, the Dagdan woman didn’t know how to answer that without extinguishing the hope in her lover’s eyes. It was not hard to glean what Catherine wanted. The woman had many gifts, but subtlety was not one of them. Shamir snared her bottom lip between her teeth, words failing. After a moment, Catherine’s expression smoothed.

“Sorry. I suppose that’s a rather strange question. Forget I asked.” She chuckled faintly, but Shamir did not miss the agitated flex of her jaw. “It was just a bit of whimsy anyway. Shall we join the kids? I think they’re getting tired of playing among themselves.”

The Dagdan woman said nothing, still frozen by her partner's inquiry. She watched as Catherine hailed the children, stopping them amid a spat. Connla's face was noticeably ruddy, most likely from embarrassment. The boy did not lose often to his sister, it seemed. He perked upon Catherine's approach.

“I think it’s time for a little break from snowball fights. Connla, how about you and I get to building that dragon?” The former Knight swaggered to his side and clapped him on the back. “Let’s show these ladies how it’s done.”

A sapphire gaze, bolder in hue with the surrounding snow, stared at her in amusement. There was nothing of the previous moment’s tension upon her features. But, Shamir knew, the question would remain long after this cold morning. Despite her careless facade, Catherine was not prone to meaningless words. She said nothing she did not mean. Yet the matter was settled for the moment; buried, until it could no longer be ignored. Shamir nipped her cheek. The pain blended with the sting of the winter wind.

* * *

_The passing of the throne had been a trite affair. The Church was still smarting over the loss of Garreg Mach and the Kingdom soldiers were cast into uncertainty by the sudden upheaval. As for the prospective King, Dimitri was not in the proper mindset. His mood was bleak and the boy barely stirred as the Archbishop called him forward. Shamir observed the proceedings with threadbare interest. She and Catherine watched from the wings, far above the assembled crowd. She tapped the balcony rail idly, taking in the various lords and ladies who came for this event._

_They were not an impressive lot. The majority were from minor holdings and the only Lords of import were Lord Fraldarius and the Prince's uncle. The Duke's support was not unexpected, but the severity of his countenance ignited intrigue. The furrow of his brow deepened as Dimitri knelt at the Archbishop's feet. Shamir could guess at the content of his thoughts. A man does not easily hand over power, and the loss of a Kingdom was no paltry thing. Whether his envy would grow to bitterness was a thing of conjecture. As a crown was placed atop a golden head and the crowd clapped in perfunctory waves, the man swept through the crowd. He did not turn as Rhea bid the new King to rise._

_** And so a dragon crowned a boy and named him King.** **עם זאת, כותרת לא הופכת גבר.** She wondered if the Prince understood the strings binding him to country and Church. But as he stood and addressed the crowd, the hollow of his eyes at odds with the fire of his words, it seemed unlikely. Rhea hovered at his shoulder. The shadow she cast fell over an empty throne._

_Much later, after the kowtowing nobility finally took their leave, Shamir headed for the courtyard. Catherine had requested a spar; a frequent occurrence of late for the restless woman. Fhirdiad seemed to make her partner jittery. Of course, the Knight would never readily admit her unease but Shamir was learned in her habits. She made her way through the castle, blood rising as she anticipated her partner’s unrest._

_Around a bend, just beyond the throne room, a fair head caught her attention. Shamir paused, momentarily surprised by the man standing a few paces away. The Duke of Itha was facing the interior wall, head tilted up. His eyes were flinty as he stared at one of the paintings. Shamir regarded him for a moment. The man had been conspicuously absent since his nephew's coronation. It was assumed he deferred in favor of the King; split allegiance could not be suffered in war and letting a potential claimant stir underfoot would be unwise. Yet Shamir doubted his disappearance was solely at King Dimitri's behest._

_Men were strange and prideful creatures till the end. She set aside her musings. The matter didn’t concern her and what little intrigue it offered meant little. So Shamir glided past him, thoughts returning to her waiting partner. Abruptly, the Duke’s voice broke the silence._

_“You’re one of Her Grace’s Knights.” The man turned, arms clasped behind him. For the first time, she took his measure in full. There was a jarring dissonance between his plain face and reedy voice. It was pitched higher than his nephew’s, but it contained the same aristocratic cadence. “The woman from Dagda, if I’m not mistaken.”_

_“I am.” Shamir stared at him evenly. She crossed her arms, pointedly ignoring Fόdlan etiquette. She bowed to Rhea on occasion, but only when necessary. The Duke did not seem to mind the slight, but it was difficult to read his expression. The beard draping his jaw hid most of his features from view._

_“I can’t say I’m familiar with your people. To my knowledge, only Adrestia has interacted with Dagda at length.” The man moved his gaze to the window. “Did you fight in the Dagdan war with the Empire? You look old enough for it.”_

_“I did.” Shamir shifted on her heels, growing impatient with the man’s questioning. Whether he was spurred by boredom or some baser purpose, she had no desire to entertain him. Still, he was the King’s uncle. It would not be prudent to anger such a figure._

_“I assumed as much. Perhaps it’s only fitting you should face them again. Revenge is a potent motivator.” The Duke’s interest appeared to wane. Something that might have been displeasure darkened his eyes. Shamir was tempted to leave it there, but the assumption grated._

_“The promise of revenge isn't what keeps me here. I have little love for the Empire, but I do not relish the thought of its fall."_

_The man’s brows rose. His attention settled firmly on her once more._

_“Then why do you fight?”_

_“I’m being paid to. I don’t need a better reason.”_

_“You’re rather frank. I didn’t expect that of someone who serves the Church.” He waved a hand dismissively. “However, fighting for coin is little better than hatred. Both are devoid of worth. It’s a pity neither Her Grace nor my nephew can see that.”_

_“Then what should a person fight for?" Shamir favored him with a measured glance. His condescension was expected. Everyone in Fόdlan had differing ideals and many were disinclined to think otherwise. The nobility as a whole was entirely too content in their view of the world, regardless of personal experience. She doubted this man, soft of body and meticulous of dress, knew anything of war._

_“A soldier should fight for home, land, and honor. These are all noble pursuits. But a King must strive for more.” The Duke turned to the painting at his back. It was a simple piece depicting the late King Lambert. Shamir knew little of him but recalled he had been widely respected. On the few occasions he was mentioned, the man seemed larger than life. She assumed nostalgia and the untimely nature of his death painted him to be greater than he was._

_Still, Shamir could not deny the King had been striking. She took in the sharp profile and compared those features to his brother. There was an undeniable disparity between them, even with the superficial similarities. It was as if the painting had been stretched and smeared to form a lesser copy. Shamir wondered if the Duke recognized that as well._

_“My brother won wars. He knew understanding the enemy was more important than personal grievance,” he continued. “Before his campaign began, Lambert studied their culture. He delved into their history and way of life. In many ways, my brother understood them more than anyone else. Because of that, his triumph over Sreng will forever be remembered.”_

_“But Rhea and Dimitri don’t understand the Emperor. Is that the point you’re making?” Shamir sighed, tiring of this conversation. He wasn’t wrong, but the superior manner in which the noble lectured was aggravating._

_“For the most part.” The man frowned deeply. “More than that, they don’t care to understand her. That ignorance will goad them into complacency. I also worry about the Archbishop’s influence over my nephew.”_

_“He can make his own choices,” Shamir remarked, dismissive._

_“She’ll lead him by the nose and Dimitri will be none the wiser,” The Duke glared with mounting vehemence. “A King must know his place; the power he can command and who to seek advice from. The Archbishop overestimates her reach. The King must bow before the Goddess, but he does need to show the same courtesy to a mere mortal woman. Let alone one incapable of keeping her territory.”_

_“You should be careful to whom you speak.” Shamir did not care for Rhea as anything other than an employer, but letting dissent spread would mean trouble for her later. The man was lucky Catherine hadn’t been here to witness this. Her partner would not have hesitated to lay the man flat. The Duke’s face pinched before he straightened._

_“I thought I was speaking to someone who cared nothing for Fόdlan figureheads. Or am I wrong?”_

_“No, but I care even less for your whining.” Shamir let her hand fall near her dagger. “You said a King must know his place. So should a Duke. Death comes fast for those who fail to do so, no matter what pretty titles you have.”_

_The man’s features contorted unpleasantly. An angry flush raced up his neck._

_“I should have known better to think you might understand. I'll forgive your sharp tongue for now, but you should be aware of your fragile position. Dagda is far and what few allies you've gathered serve a Goddess who does not favor you. Just as Lady Rhea does, you stray from your place."_

_Shamir narrowed her eyes at the implied threat. She tensed, but a sudden bellow interrupted the retort poised in her tongue._

_“Shamir! There you are. I’ve been waiting for an age.” Catherine walked briskly towards them. A smile tilted her lips, but her eyes were cold. She pointedly did not address the Duke. “I thought maybe you had forgotten me. I see now you’ve been waylaid by a pest. Need me to swat it for you?”_

_Shamir watched as the man’s eyed flashed. His shoulders hunched as he stared balefully at Catherine. Then, with a disdainful sniff, he stomped down the hall. The Knight’s eyes followed him. Her smile vanished under the clenching of her jaw. It was evident the blood between them was still sour. The man, for the justice he had been denied, and the woman, for the life she had lost. Catherine’s expression remained stony as the Duke disappeared around the bend._

_“Tell me if he bothers you again.” The Knight cut her eyes to the shorter woman. A cord in her neck throbbed with strain. Shamir lifted a brow and set a hand atop her hip._

_“I’m perfectly capable of solving my own problems.”_

_“Sure, but Rufus is the sort of trouble you shouldn’t have to deal with.” A long breath escaped her partner slowly. The taut line of her shoulders loosened. “He probably approached you because of me. I’ll give the man one thing, he can carry a grudge like no one else.”_

_“I'm not so sure." While the Duke seemed to be aware of who she was, Shamir didn't get the impression he derided her affiliation with Catherine. His prior tone was conversational and layered with things unsaid. From his attempts to steer the subject to Rhea, he might have been attempting to commiserate. Or, if Shamir interpreted his veiled implication correctly, searching for a potential tool._

_As a Dagdan mercenary, she would have made for an impartial weapon against the Archbishop. The reasoning was sound, if a gamble on his part. Truthfully, it would not take much to get Rhea alone. Shamir was not above assassination nor trading employers when it suited her. However, she knew Catherine would never forgive her for it. She directed her gaze to the painting. King Lambert looked to be the sort of man who lived honorably. Yet even he did not accept foreign culture. Understood and conquered, yet nothing more._

_Shamir pursed her lips. She barely registered her partner’s voice as she went on about something or another. Her mind turned with the Duke’s words and ire burned beneath her skin She didn’t need to hear a lecture about knowing one’s place in this world. Her role had been clear from the beginning. Unlike Sreng or Duscur, Shamir would not confuse understanding with acceptance._

* * *

The snow sculpting ended in bitter defeat for the former Knight and the young boy. Connla was perpetually downcast, smarting from his loss. Despite Catherine's assistance, the boy's exuberance got the better of him. He had tripped atop the snowy drake mid-construction, leading to an instant collapse of its hind legs. Catherine had taken the disaster in good humor but Connla was inconsolable. Aife was smug for the rest of the morning, delicately smoothing the icy mane of her constructed horse. It was a modest but finely made effort.

Surprisingly, it hadn’t been the trial Shamir had feared. Snow didn’t behave too differently from wet sand, she found. Once they were done and declared the victor by a laughing Catherine, the girl wrapped herself around the Dagdan woman. Shamir had stiffened under the touch, but relaxed upon seeing her partner’s smile. She patted the girl’s head. It was an admittedly awkward motion, but Aife didn’t seem to mind. The girl beamed from beneath her strawberry hair before rushing to her brother’s side. She traded words with him and the boy’s expression cleared. He nodded faintly before tossing a handful of snow across his sister’s chest. The girl squawked, batting his arm as he laughed.

They got on reasonably well for their age. Shamir didn't recall her siblings interacting similarly. Perhaps losing both parents made their bond stronger than it might have been otherwise. The thought was sobering; a reminder of everything these children had lost in the name of war. Still, she was glad they had each other. It was a painful thing, to be alone. Shamir broke from her line of thought as a hand was placed to her back. Her eyes moved upward and met twinkling blue. The Dagdan woman felt her heart ache with affection. Loneliness was not an affliction she needed to worry over.

When they returned to the warm confines of the chapel, the women were greeted by a waiting Bothild. The nun was divesting her wards of their coats before ushering them near the fire. Gray streaked hair whipped as the older woman faced them. She looked extraordinarily cheery this morning, no sign of the illness that had plagued her for days.

“Ah, there you two are. Did you all have fun?” Bothild asked pleasantly.

“We did, though I think Connla took a mighty blow to his pride.” Catherine rubbed her jaw with a laugh. “Aife’s quite the little scrapper. She had him eating snow within minutes.”

“She's craftier than her brother," Shamir commented. She eyed the girl resting beside the fire pit. "With her quiet disposition, I wager she would make for a fine archer."

“Heh, are you planning to take her under your wing? Make a mercenary out of little Aife?" Catherine smirked, but a genuine inquiry lay beneath the jest. Shamir paused before her gaze traveled to the silent nun. Bothild's expression was unreadable, but the rigid stance she favored did not go unnoticed. She met the younger woman's eyes evenly.

“No,” Shamir responded, firm and quick. “The girl may have the potential, but taking up arms is not something that should be done lightly. She’s too soft for bloodshed and I’m not in the habit of forcing a weapon into unwilling hands.”

“Well said.” Bothild chuckled, posture gentling. Her smile was fond as she looked at them both. Then, the nun grabbed her coat from the wall hanger. “I think I’ll let the two of you enjoy yourselves. Watch the kids, won’t you? I need to head into town to check on a patient.”

“The cobbler’s wife?” Shamir recalled the woman in question. She was slight of frame and narrow of hip, a combination that did not suit childbirth. So far, the pregnancy was hard but the woman complained little. It was her husband who had done most of the fretting. “We dropped by their home the other day. I doubt much would have changed since then.”

“Possibly, but I would rather not chance it. If something should go afoul, better that it happens when I’m near.”

“Hm.” The Dagdan woman pondered the notion. The chapel was a brisk walk from the village proper, but the snow would bog down travelers. If the woman went into labor, the husband would need to make the journey twice to fetch the healer. Who knew how long that could take? Still, even if Bothild was close enough to deliver the child that did not mean her hands would be steady. Shamir watched Bothild bundle into layers of cloth before she sighed and wandered to the door. “I’ll go with you. Should disaster strike, I doubt that husband will be much help. He looked entirely too frantic last time.”

“Not an unfair observation; the poor man." The nun quirked a brow, but she did not decline. "I suppose that leaves the children to you, Cassia. You don't mind too terribly, I hope."

“Not at all.” Catherine glanced up, appearing thoughtful. “However, I was thinking of visiting Weyland. I needed to ask him some things and I’m sure the kids won’t mind coming with.”

“And what are you planning to ask, exactly?" Shamir frowned at this. Catherine waved off the question, shrugging blithely.

“Oh, nothing too important. Just some logistical stuff. Don’t worry.”

She stared at her partner, somewhat unnerved. The woman’s earlier inquiry had not been not forgotten and she was leery of what Catherine might be searching for. While she loved her partner, she was not blind to the woman’s impulsive nature. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think she might get wrapped up in something unfortunate.

Shamir’s hand curled at her side as her partner’s eyes fixed on the window. She did not enjoy the contemplative cast to Catherine’s features. It was a bit unkind to say, but terrible things tended to happen when her partner adopted that look. Her worries stayed with her as they left, growing into a knot of unease.

* * *

With the fresh snowfall, the village exterior changed dramatically. Homes were capped in a quilt of white, shutters laden with ice. The main road was no better, taking the facade of a river of frost lanced with intermittent swathes of brown. A chorus of snow crunching underfoot came from the villagers milling about. There weren’t many, but the few Shamir did see were familiar to her.

The lone shepherd with the twisted knee. The weaver whose hands were a patchwork of gnarled scars. The butcher with the gash in his arm from a missed cut. Their ailments were small compared to those who suffered an injury in the war. However, Bothild's assistance could not be overstated. In a small settlement such as this, a wound could postpone several weeks of labor. However, for those who sought healing magic, it was only a concern for the day.

Of course, there were people who denied Bothild's service. And it was those who Shamir had little regard for. Despise the Church all you wish, but it was foolish to turn aside aid on principle alone. A prime example of that was the hunter from before. Had he sought healing sooner, he would still have an arm. Then, as if her thoughts had summoned him from nothing, Shamir spotted the hunter in her periphery. The man was in the company of his brother, shirt tied off where his arm should have been. Both men were heading in Bothild's direction. Wary of possible enmity, Shamir tensed at their approach.

“Sister, please wait!" The brother jogged up to them first. He greeted both women with a beaming grin. The hunter followed, his pace far more sedate. "I was hoping to catch the two of you today. It's been a while, hasn't it? People were beginning to worry."

“Oh, it was just a small cold. Nothing to fuss over.” Bothild smiled at the men warmly. “The two of you seem to be doing well. Do you feel a lingering pain in your arm, dear boy?”

“Nothing that isn't manageable." The hunter shifted on his heels. He looked distinctly ill at ease. "I… I owe you my life. And also an apology. I did not treat you fairly, Sister, and assumed you were like the rest. Forgive me."

“An apology isn’t necessary, but I am glad to hear you’re not in pain. It’s a healer’s duty to help those in need, no matter if they wish it.” Bothild laid a consoling hand to the hunter’s good arm. “However, I think your gratitude is better served for my assistant. Her task was far more trying than my own.”

“Aye." The hunter turned his head and met Shamir's stare. He offered a deep bow. "My brother spoke of your skilled hands. I'm in your debt."

“You owe me nothing. I did what I had to.” The Dagdan woman crossed her arms, uncomfortable with the attention. The hunter gave her a considering look before dipping his head once. After, he strode away from them. The other man lingered, his grin never fading.

“My brother always been a bit stiff, but he means what he says. Some of the others may still be anxious about the Church, but you have a friend in us. I'll be sure to spread all the goodwill I can."

“That would be lovely. Thank you.” Bothild said, amused by his effusive words. Suddenly, the man turned his attention to Shamir. Red bloomed across his cheeks, perhaps in reaction to the sharp wind.

“...And, if you ever need anything, I would be happy to help. We really do owe you everything, Lady…?" He trailed, prompting for the Dagdan woman's name. Shamir just blinked at him. At her side, Bothild made a noise of amusement.

“She’s known as Shay, but I would be careful. Her beau was a soldier and the brute might mistake your interest.”

“Ah... No. We wouldn’t want that.” Disappointment passed across his face. “Fair travels to the both of you. Farewell.”

Shamir watched him leave, his gait less enthusiastic than before. She sent the nun a sidelong look, puzzling over the exchange.

“’The brute’?”

Bothild only bobbed her head serenely, clasping her hands together.

“I find that men respond better to the idea of physical threat when it comes to competition. Thankfully, he’s the sort to concede without a fight. Not that Cassia couldn’t match him. I’m sure she would soundly put him in his place if pressed.”

“Why would she?” Shamir’s brow creased. “What sort of competition are you alluding to?”

For the first time, astonishment passed across the nun’s lined features. Wispy brows arched high.

“I’m surprised, Shay. I thought a lovely woman like you would be wise to a man’s affections.” Bothild’s mouth twitched. “He’s sweet on you. But mayhaps that fact alluded, blind as you are to everyone else.”

“...Was he?” Shamir pursed her lips. She dropped her eyes to the snow. It had been years since she had noticed anything in that vein. Flirtations came in her youth, but she had never responded positively; other than when it came to Catherine. Bothild was right, she was blind to everyone who wasn’t her partner. Despite herself, abashment darkened her cheeks. “It’s been a long time. In the place I served before, romance was ill-advised in the ranks. Never explicitly banned, but frowned upon all the same.”

“Ah, that explains you and Cassia then.”

“Not entirely, but that might have been a factor.” Shamir's mind strayed to the long years they spent together, both longing for something neither felt they could have. "We fooled ourselves with lies and misgivings. That, more than anything, kept us apart."

“That sounds like a more complicated situation than I was considering. Other than the obvious rival in her affections.” The nun placed a finger to her chin. “It’s good that you’ve come to an understanding at long last. Happiness should not be a struggle.”

Bothild looked across the village. Her aged features melted with something Shamir could not define. At that moment, the older woman looked both younger than her years and terribly weary. Where the nun’s thoughts went was a mystery, but her distant expression deepened as time wore on.

“You know, these people have barely warmed to me. Years have passed, yet they still greet me with reluctance. The war was just provided more fuel to burn.” Bothild wet her chapped lips. “Yet they embrace you readily; a blessing, for someone who seeks a home.”

“That’s not what I’m seeking,” Shamir replied swiftly.

“No?” The woman offered her assistant an unimpressed stare. “I must say, you have me at a loss. I’ve never met another girl so intent on ignoring her good fortune. The north does not warm easily, but I think it has taken to you.”

She smiled, wistful and melancholic.

“A good judge of character, I think. Don’t be so quick to spurn its graces.” The nun spread her arms wide as she gestured to the village surrounding them. “There could be a place here for you, should you wish it. Maybe not forever and maybe not without difficulty, but it’s somewhere to belong.”

“I have a home.” Shamir bit back a wince. She did not intend to sound so defensive. The other woman just eyed her knowingly.

“If you insist. Regardless, I think we’ve been delayed long enough. Let’s hurry before the cobbler worries himself into the grave. I _did_ promise the man to visit before midday.”

Shamir clenched her teeth together, forcing her expression to remain calm. A scowl was threatening to pull at her lips, but she smothered the impulse. It wasn’t the first time the nun had been invasive in her scrutiny. However, it was the first she genuinely felt resentment for. Everything in her life seemed determined to chain her to this place. Catherine, Bothild, and even the village itself.

Why was it so important to stay? Did they not see she reviled Fόdlan? Nothing good came from inaction. It was the same as treading water, and Shamir refused to fall into the same stagnating patterns. Culann would not become another Garreg Mach. Shamir refused to linger in a place destined for collapse. She followed Bothild dutifully, but her irritation did not fade. A harsh wind stung her eyes. She trudged on, disdaining the frozen ground beneath her feet.

_בניית בית בתוך קרח רק תחנוק_ _._

* * *

As the sun retreated behind a sheet of grey, they returned from their visit to the cobbler. The man was, as expected, jittery with worry; but Bothild set him at ease with a few words of comfort. The prospective mother did not seem concerned to any great extent, in contrast to her antsy husband. She thanked the other women heartily, hand placed to her protruding belly.

It was a wonder why the pair timed this child to arrive in winter, but Shamir would not decry them for a simple mistake. Passion and human nature were odd things, beyond the realm of reason. The woman did not seem fit to deliver quite yet, but one could never guess entirely. Nonetheless, the nun was insistent upon making daily trips; just in case. The couple seemed soothed by her declaration. The older woman was frightfully good with people, something Shamir was growing to be leery of. No one was practiced in speech without cause. If Bothild noticed the cursory glances sent her way, it was not commented on.

Soon, day ceded to night, and the pair found themselves preparing dinner in the interim. Bothild was strangely quiet, hardly making a sound as they tended to the meal. Shamir surmised it was due to their prior conversation. It did not end in conflict, but she could still feel an air of disapproval between them. The older woman was far from curt, yet the impression remained. Shamir was tempted to retread the topic. She owed Bothild much and she found herself loathing the sudden uncertainty.

In the end, Shamir stayed her tongue. She could not promise the woman anything. Her intentions would remain on escaping this place and nothing could sway her from that plan. Even Catherine, healthy and happy in a way only glimpsed before, would not convince her otherwise. _We lived by running. We are unseen because we hide. _A deer does not stay in the same glade when an arrow is loosed. Why should they act differently?

_בכל פעם שאני נשאר_ _, _ _האושר שלי הופך לאפר_ _._

Shamir breathed in and held the air for a time. Her lungs burned. She forced her heartbeat to slow, letting her anxiety drain. A measured calm slipped over her. It kept, for a time, washing away her troubles. Hours later, as she settled by the fire, Shamir tried not to think of the future. Catherine was nestled at her side, a warm and solid presence that asked nothing she wasn’t prepared to give. She let herself be cradled in her partner’s arms, concerns distant as the falling snow.

“Is everything alright?”

Shamir stilled. She opened her eyes, unsure when they had closed, before meeting her partner’s searching gaze.

“Between you and Bothild,” Catherine clarified. Her voice was low, conscious of the children slumbering in their rooms. The nun had left to put them to bed half an hour earlier before retiring to her quarters. Shamir forced herself not to bite down on her cheek. She did not want Catherine to see her agitation.

“We just had a small disagreement.” She rethought the wording quickly. “Not even that, honestly. It’ll pass by tomorrow.”

“You sure?” The former Knight blinked down at her. Fair brows slanted with consternation. “I would hate to pick sides. She does cook a mean pie. Besides, Bothild might be old, but I wager she could put up a good fight.”

“I doubt we’ll degenerate into fisticuffs. That was always your thing, not mine.” Shamir rolled her eyes, but her partner’s comment did cause a smile to bloom. One of the many reasons she kept the woman around. “As I said, I don’t expect this to last the night. Our host isn’t petty nor beyond logic. We’re hardly the type of people to scream at each other when our opinions don’t align.”

“Ha! Was that a dig at me, Lady Shamir?” Catherine smiled cheekily before leaving a sloppy kiss upon Shamir’s cheek. “I’ll let you have that one. I’m sure my spat with Weyland with forever be a black stain upon my reputation.”

“What little you have left with me.” The shorter woman curled herself deeper into her partner’s hold. “Speaking of the smith, how was that trip of yours?”

“Relatively uneventful.” Something flickered in Catherine’s eyes. The color was darker in the intimacy of shadows, burning with something unknown. A chill crept up Shamir’s neck, raising the hairs there. “I got the information I needed, so I’m content. The kids had fun too, though I think Weyland was a bit mystified at how to handle them. Aife was pretty tame, but Connla kept badgering the old goat to make something.”

“And did he?”

“At the very end, yes. But not before Weyland nearly clipped him on the ear.” The former knight lifted her shoulders. “I think he enjoyed the company, even if he won’t admit it. I’m sure it brings back fond memories.”

“The smith had children?” Shamir wasn’t too surprised by the revelation, but she was somewhat bewildered Catherine had been able to gather it. She was under the impression the smith was too private a man to share his life easily. The woman must have earned his trust. Catherine bobbed her head.

“A son. However, as these things tend to go, tragedy tore him away.” The former Knight’s face clouded as her mouth closed. A muscle in her cheek leapt. “I think I killed him. Either me… or Byleth’s runts. Turns out, he had joined Lonato’s rebellion. I never thought I would face someone tied to that incident.”

“Do you regret it?" Shamir asked, trying to read her partner's mood. The other woman exhaled sharply.

“I want to say yes. I don’t like knowing I caused suffering for a man I’ve come to respect. But I don’t think I have the luxury of regret.” Catherine smiled faintly, but it was strained. “I wasn’t the same then. It didn’t occur to me to ask questions or wonder if they had cause to revolt. As a Knight, it was my duty to cut them down. So I did. For me, he was just one of many.”

She tossed her head, a self-deprecating chuckle escaping her.

“Bah! Forget this dire talk. What about you? Is everything well in Culann?”

“Well as it can be.” Shamir played with a stray lock of Catherine’s hair. The strands were longer than she had ever seen. They curled at the end, wrapping around her fingers. A cut would be needed soon, something she required herself. Shamir despised it long, but maybe she would ask Catherine’s opinion on the matter. “The cobbler's wife is in adequate condition. The labor will be hard, but Bothild's skills should mitigate any danger. As for the rest of the village, nothing new was troubling them.”

Shamir paused, thinking briefly of the hunter.

“The man whose arm I amputated is doing fine. He’ll need to find new work, but I’m sure someone in the village will have pity. His brother is taking care of him, at least.”

“Is that the poor fool who’s smitten with you?”

She drew back, taken off guard. Shamir's eyes thinned.

“Where did you hear that?” The Dagdan woman demanded heatedly. Catherine just shrugged.

“Someone mentioned it earlier.” Her teeth glittered as she broke into a reckless grin. “Why? Afraid I’ll gut the bastard? I do have a jealous streak.”

"Hm. Just 'someone'?" Shamir glared at her, unamused. "And no, I don’t fear you flying into a jealous rage. You may be occasionally thick, but I don’t think that little of you.”

“Heh, good to know!” Catherine chuckled deeply. Her expression sobered after a time. “I might not be too keen on men showing you attention, but I know better than to kill them for it. Admiration isn’t something to wage war over. However, I will admit to starting a few brawls back in the day over your honor.”

“Honor?” Shamir puzzled over the word, uncertain as to what her partner meant. Catherine snorted at her confusion.

“I’m amazed you never noticed. There used to be betting pools back in the day. The kind that earned a black eye and a bloody nose.” Something dark and forbidding passed over her face. “They seemed to think your heritage made you a challenge. I made them think twice.”

“So you beat them bloody is what I’m hearing.” Shamir cupped her partner's face with a hand. She tried to bury the satisfaction that thought ignited. The last thing she wanted to do was encourage Catherine's bad habits. Still, she felt warmth flood her breast as their eyes met. "You should have known better. Starting fights would only fan their distaste and cause trouble for you. I don’t know why you bothered.”

"You're my partner," Catherine explained simply. "I wasn’t going to listen to some assholes place bets on whether they could bed you. We may not have been involved back then, but I still cared. I just didn’t know how deeply until recently.”

“That sort of thing wasn’t unknown to me, even if I wasn’t aware of the details. It comes with the territory of being ‘pretty and foreign’. In truth, I would be more surprised if there hadn’t been incidents like this,” Shamir mused. Catherine made a low noise deep in her chest.

“I don’t care whether it was frequent or rare, it shouldn’t have happened at all.” The former Knight hesitated before her voice softened. “I… never really thought about how you were perceived. As a Dagdan. That sort of thing didn't register to me. Even when I was thrashing those idiots, I was mostly just focused on protecting you. Yet now, I can see why you think the worst of Fόdlan.”

“Perception is everything. They thought the worst of me, so I thought the same of them.” Shamir trailed a finger down Catherine’s cheek. “You were different, whether from obliviousness or simple kindness. I don’t think you understand how much of a comfort you were.”

“I’m glad.” She traced the taller woman’s lips as she smiled. Shamir memorized each crease and curve, desperate to commit these features to memory. “I think anomalies are everywhere. Not everyone is the same; even when they share similar places of origin. It’s a bit silly to boil down the individual to something they cannot change. Places are similar, in my opinion.”

Shamir froze at this. She blinked and stared at her partner’s face. There was truth in those words. She knew it was ludicrous to think everyone in Fόdlan behaved in the same manner. Each country was a nest of frustrating beliefs and the majority did tend toward the unpleasant. Yet Catherine was the exception to the rule. But so was Bothild, Byleth, and even Edelgard. They had been enemies at the end but in the short time they spent together, the Dagdan woman never got the impression they held her origins in contempt.

For the first time, Shamir felt her conviction waver. Catherine waited patiently as she tried to gather her composure. Her throat was tight as she mustered a short response.

“Maybe.”

**Next Chapter: Quench (2)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Welp, I wrote too much again and had to split the chapter into two. It will still be from Shamir's pov, however. Both will be a bit shorter, but I think this works in favor of the pacing. There were going to be two separate themes for this portion anyway, so maybe this worked out for the better haha. The first is something I feel needs to be explored more in regards to Fodlan and people from different countries. Xenophobia is glossed over in-game, but I think that does a disservice to the characters. One of the instances that really sticks out to me is when you're looking for suspects and Shamir is presented as an obvious candidate. She's foreign and therefore suspicious. The saddest bit is that she doesn't even seem surprised you would question her. To me, that said a lot about what she faced as a Dagdan in Fodlan. There's more at play here too, but that's for next time! If you have any thoughts, I would love to hear them~  
Thank you for reading, everyone <3 - AdraCat


	16. Quench (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A woman ponders trust and all its nuances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my beta, johnxfire <3

Within the deep recesses of night, the rattling of shutters accompanied the flutter of dark lashes. Shamir stirred, awoken by something she could not define. Her stare focused on the ceiling as she took a sharp inhale. Heat dotted her brow in a slick sheen; an anomaly for such a chilled eve. Her pulse was scattered, thundering within her throat, yet she could not parse the reason. Dreams were not an often occurrence for her. However, that did not mean she was immune to their rare appearance. But on this night, no recollection came to mind; just the patter of her heart and a lingering emotion she hesitated to call fear.

Shamir twisted beneath the sheets, blinking away rivulets of sweat. Beside her, Catherine slumbered on. The other woman’s chest rose evenly, peaceful and undisturbed. Shamir watched her for a moment before rising from the bed. She suppressed an instinctive shiver as the pad of her feet pressed to cold wood. Quickly, she slid into her discarded shirt and crept to the window. Then the Dagdan woman peered through the slats and into the dark.

It was snowing; gentle and lethargic. Scattered ice fell serenely amid ribbons of moonlight. The shutters trembled beneath a sudden gust. Shamir blinked as the wind kissed her brow. The hour was late and the sun had yet to peek over the trees. No flickers of flame from candle or torch could be glimpsed. All was still as it should be. So why did she find herself so unsettled? Shamir forced her lungs to still as she centered herself. Her heart raced on regardless.

It was familiar, this feeling. She had experienced it years before when foreign sails marked the Dagdan coast. The same anxiety. The same gnawing terror. When a golden eagle on a field of black eclipsed the horizon and devoured her home. She had been certain defeat was inevitable. Solomon, ever confident and unyielding, felt otherwise. But where had that certainty led? A shallow grave was his only reward. Cities long thought impenetrable crumbled in the Empire’s wake and the well-trod landscape she had once known became alien to the eye; all in a matter of weeks.

This dreaded knot in her throat was the same she had then. Perhaps it was a mercy she could not remember what dreams had awoken her. Shamir rubbed her brow with the flat of her palm. Behind her, she heard the rustle of cloth before Catherine’s voice broke the quiet.

“Shamir..?” Her partner’s voice was a drowsy grumble, breaking upon the last letter. She looked to the other woman, watching as Catherine rose on her arms. Blue eyes squinted through the shadows. “Something wrong?”

“You should go back to sleep,” Shamir answered, deftly avoiding the question. She walked to the bed and perched on its edge. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Too late now.” Catherine stretched with a mighty yawn. She scratching behind an ear before her gaze flicked to the window. “Cold? I can fetch some blankets from the attic. They’re old and patchy, but they should work fine.”

“And how do you know that?” Shamir settled next to her partner. Her heart calmed, eased by the sound of Catherine’s voice. “I didn’t realize you had been snooping around.”

“Hardly snooping. I leave subterfuge to you.” A smile spread across fine features. Dimples raised at the edge, and Shamir was struck by the affection in that look. “The first week we were here, I was consumed with trying to make myself useful, remember? Airing out the attic was a simple enough task.”

“So you took that as permission to rifle through our host’s things.”

"As if you would have done any different." Catherine rubbed her chest as another yawn snaked out of her mouth. “She’s got a bunch of junk up there collecting dust. Suppose it could be from the other clergy who used to live here. Anyway, let me get those blankets for you.”

“It’s fine. The chill wasn’t what woke me.” Shamir glanced at the sheets. She traced her partner's shadow as it blended with cotton. Catherine grunted before rising fully.

“Bad dreams?”

The Dagdan woman did not respond. But she knew her partner would interpret silence as confirmation. Catherine was wise in her moods just as Shamir was in hers. A grave expression stole over the former Knight accordingly.

“I know a bit of that, if you feel like talking about it,” she offered. The temptation to decline and crawl beneath the sheet nagged. It was more appealing than emotional vulnerability. Shamir did not enjoy opening herself to anyone. The bleeding wounds that decorated her past should not stain her present. However, the earnest look Catherine wore proved disarming. Shamir swallowed the curt dismissal she had prepared.

“I don’t dream as you do. Most of the time, I barely remember them. Tonight was no exception, but...” She rubbed her eyes, not bothering to conceal her irritation, both at herself and the feeling she could barely put to words. “I can’t know what it was for certain. Only that it unnerved me.”

“That’s no good.” Catherine cocked her head with a frown. “A known fear is better than a faceless one. How can it be confronted otherwise?”

“You sound as if you intend to storm my dreams and ward them away.”

“Would I get a nice reward if I did?” A wicked smirk followed. It widened as Shamir rolled her eyes. “You know, I think I could give it a try. Might not be able to slay any ghastly terrors while you sleep, but I make for a decent distraction.”

“I doubt that would solve anything. But I'll consider your offer."

Catherine laughed, full and deep in the way she was prone to. The sound rippled across Shamir’s skin. The Dagdan woman blinked, surprised, as a sturdy arm pressed her to the bed. She felt Catherine nuzzle into her neck fondly.

“I’m serious. If I could, I would wrestle any demons you might face.” The former Knight lifted her head, sobering for a moment. “When I saw you standing by the window, I grew worried.”

“Why?” Shamir turned onto her side, letting their eyes meet. Her partner’s expression hardened.

“You looked so far away. But also strangely sad.” Fair brows knit together as blue eyes searched the Dagdan woman’s face. “You don’t wear your emotions as plainly as I do. And I wanted to know what it was that affected you so strongly.”

“It wasn’t...” Shamir trailed off. The quick denial she wanted to give fled upon meeting Catherine’s unamused stare. She bit her cheek and looked away. “I was thinking of the past. Of Dagda.”

“Ah.” Catherine exhaled slowly. “The bad sort of thinking then?”

“Hmm.” Shamir considered her partner’s question. “I don’t know if I would describe it as such. They’re just memories from a time long past. What I felt… it shouldn’t still affect me.”

“Yet it does.” Catherine’s tone softened with sympathy. “You know, I never thought I could make peace with what happened years ago. Maybe I still haven’t entirely. But you’ve helped me, more than you realize.”

Shamir stilled as a comforting kiss was placed on her shoulder. Then a warm hand curved around her hip; solid and sure.

“Won’t you let me do the same for you?”

The sentiment was pure — the question heartfelt. And it was just like the other woman to carry the burdens of another. Catherine was sharp and callous with those she did not care for, but her loyalty was unquestionable. Nonetheless, Shamir found herself hesitating. Dagda was a scar she preferred to nurse in private. The losses she had suffered were varied and deeply personal. After a long silence, Shamir began to answer.

“The end did not come all at once. It was a protracted conflict, scattered over a series of weeks.” She reached down, entangling her fingers with Catherine’s. The other woman’s palm was wide and rough with callouses. Her knuckles were bony, garish in a way that was expected of her personality but strange for her breeding. “Every day was a trial of uncertainty. I was not in the army proper, merely contracted, but I was still on the front-lines. And with every loss and city sacked, our numbers grew thin.”

“That must have been frightening.” Catherine spread her fingers wide, allowing Shamir to do as she wished. There was an implicit trust in the motion. The Dagdan woman pressed a nail to the underside of her partner’s wrist.

“It was. However, the threat of death wasn’t what concerned me the most.” Shamir traced a raised vein that wrapped beneath olive skin. “I feared losing everything I loved. The places and comforts I knew. The people I had grown fond of—”

“And your old partner?” Catherine asked quietly. Shamir and peered at her lover. She inspected the woman’s features for a time, attempting to read her face. Yet Catherine gave nothing away. She returned the stare evenly.

“...Yes. I feared his death most of all.” Shamir blinked, eyes falling to the bedding. Her grip tightened on Catherine’s hand. “I knew from the beginning we would not win. But Solomon felt differently. He placed his belief in the Princes and the Gods. I thought it was foolish of him, but I bit my tongue and followed him anyway. I did not enjoy the moment I was proven right.”

“I’m sorry you lost him like that.” Catherine’s eyes darkened before a melancholic smile twisted her lips. “He must have been a good man for you to love him.”

“Good?” Shamir paused, pondering the word. “In some ways, yes. He was not predisposed to anger nor prone to recklessness. A better description would be moderate. There was thought in everything he did. However, I hesitate to define him as particularly virtuous. At the heart of him, he was a mercenary. Maybe more so than I.”

“That’s a rather level-headed look at someone you loved.”

“Idealizing a person based on emotion is ill-advised. I saw his flaws and accepted them.” Shamir pinched the top of her partner’s hand. “Just as I do with your many failings.”

“’Many’, huh?” Catherine mimed an aggravated scoff. “Well, thank you for tolerating me.”

“You wanted my honesty. So you’ll have it.” The Dagdan woman leaned over, placing a consolatory kiss upon her partner’s jaw. The harsh line of Catherine’s mouth eased.

“Hmph. I guess that’s true.” The former Knight relaxed into the pillow. Her eyes slid over Shamir before moving somewhere to the far corner. “That dagger you carried. Was it from him?”

“Yes. It was his.” Shamir breathed in slowly. The expected grief at the mention did not come. It was an odd sensation, to be free of that pain at last. Yet, as her eyes strayed to where she had kept the broken piece, a pang of loss bloomed. She did not regret saving Catherine. It was a trade well worth making. Now, that metal was either discarded or put to use elsewhere. Shamir would not begrudge this. Still, she wished _something_ of her former partner could have remained. Memory had already worn his features to dust.

“Suffering his death was… painful. What we shared will always be a precious memory, but I can’t say I regret where life has led me. If I had the choice of it_—_”

Shamir stopped, words falling away. The thought went unfinished, yet she knew how it would have ended. Solomon was a love for the past; a loss taken as her world crumbled to ash. Ultimately, it was the life of another woman. Someone younger and less traveled. Someone who did not know the weight of a great and terrible love as she did.

Back then, she loved as she lived — simple and uncomplicated. She did not, and could not, know if they would have spent the years together. It was a bond for the moment; no less consuming but indelibly different. Yet she would not have raged at a nameless deity for him nor clung to the chance of reciprocation so unerringly. Shamir knew that for certain. His importance was not suddenly less in her mind, merely placed into perspective. As was her feelings for Catherine.

_Even if he were to return to me… __הייתי בוחר בך__._ She pressed her lips to the former Knight’s palm. Such soft sentiments were not expected of her, so Shamir declined from voicing them. But she felt that Catherine could sense the meaning in her actions. In her periphery, she saw her partner’s smile return. Catherine’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“You’re more of a softy than I thought. Who knew honey existed beneath all that vinegar?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Catherine snorted, but she did not comment further. Instead, she burrowed deep into the other woman’s side. The lean stretch of her frame was a reassuring weight and Shamir found herself wanting to be closer. She rolled atop her lover and wrapped her hands in wheat strands. Then her lips sought and yearned, taking with little fear of rejection. Catherine, ever obliging, responded eagerly.

Shamir set aside her fears and growing anxiety then. There was no place for such things here, not within these pleasurable moments shared only with the night. Catherine was alive and well; something she would fight to keep a reality. She refused to suffer the same loss as before. The Empire could take whatever land it pleased, but not this. Not _her._

They would be out of the Empire’s border within a matter of weeks, if not days. And soon, her worries would finally vanish. Yet despite her affirmations to the contrary, fear lingered. It stayed, nesting within her heart, and hollowed the confidence love had built.

* * *

“Breath in, deep as you can.” Wrinkled hands steadied a slight frame, providing support to a swollen midsection. “Let the air expand your ribs in full. Hold it. Now release.”

Shamir watched with vague interest as Bothild instructed her patient. The heavily pregnant woman went through the motions, chest expanding. Thin shoulders trembled before a gust of air escaped flushed cheeks. The nun nodded approvingly.

“There you are. The motions will get easier in time. For now, try to keep yourself relaxed.” She swept her robes from beneath her and rose. “We’ll focus on more breathing exercises tomorrow. I’ll leave you some tea leaves as well. It's not a cure-all, mind you, but it should help with your discomfort.”

“Thank you, Sister. Hopefully, my nights will be a little easier to bear.” The woman dipped her head respectfully. Exhaustion and pain had sapped her spirits, but she mustered a wan smile nonetheless. Despite her condition, she was a seemly woman. The green of her eyes was common for Fόdlan, but the rich brown of her hair called to mind an oak. It was not difficult to see what the cobbler saw in her, even if the man himself was not particularly becoming. “The early months weren’t without their troubles, but it’s been harder these last few weeks. Do you think…?”

“I wouldn’t worry, dear. You’re doing well, all things considered.” Bothild patted her arm gently. “Resting your mind is just as important as your body. I believe that husband of yours has fretted enough for the both of you.”

“Bernard means well,” the woman commented. It was telling she said nothing more in his defense. She shifted her weight against the pillows. “I do wonder what’s taking him so long. I hope he didn’t get into another spat at the stalls. The farmer’s boy would barely look my way after all the fuss he made.”

“An earned rebuke by my measure. The village is hurting too much for the prices they’re asking.” For once, a mask of ire slid over the nun’s face. The weathered timber of her iris lit with fire. Shamir didn’t expect a woman such as her to be capable of such an expression. It made her keenly aware that she knew precious little about their host. Then, perhaps conscious of her assistant’s scrutiny, Bothild calmed. “I suppose it can’t be helped. Though, I do wish they would consider trading, at the very least.”

“Opportunists are everywhere,” Shamir replied; short and brusque. Both the prone woman and the nun stared at her in surprise. She didn’t fault them. If her help wasn’t required she typically stood unobtrusively in the corner. The villagers were innocuous, but the Dagdan woman would rather avoid familiarity. “If you want justice, send your complaints to the headman. It’s their duty is to solve silly disputes like these.”

“A fine idea, but Culann is lacking in any defined leadership.” Bothild pressed her lips together. “The old headman passed during the war. He have no successor to replace him either. There hasn’t been enough time to decide on another, and requesting governance from the Margrave is out of the question.”

“Lord Gautier seems like the honorable sort. I’m sure once the Empire’s affairs are settled he’ll see to us.” The pregnant woman placed a hand over her belly, features thoughtful. “Until then, I’m sure we can manage ourselves.”

Shamir concealed the irritation she felt at this. ‘Honorable’ wasn’t a word she would use to describe Sylvain Gautier. Whatever busy work the Emperor had him pursuing couldn’t be worth the continued negligence of his lands. It took him months just to mend a bridge. How much time would he need to help these ailing settlements? She pushed the thought away as Bothild clapped her hands.

“I think I’ll go search for your missing husband. With luck, the poor man just got caught in a snowdrift.” The nun paused, glancing toward Shamir. “Stay here and watch over our patient, Shay. I shouldn’t be too long and I think Leid could use the company.”

Shamir nodded in acknowledgment, if with faint reluctance. She was not keen on making small-talk with strangers and the curious look upon the cobbler’s wife made that inevitable. When Bothild finally left, the pregnant woman turned to her with interest.

“Your name is… Shay?” She appeared to reflect on that piece of information. “I can’t say I’ve ever met another person with that name. It sounds like it could be Faerghian but...”

“It’s commonplace in Brigid.” Shamir crossed her arms. While most Fόdlan people were not familiar with Dagdan features, her foreign nature was undeniable. Brigid was a handy enough cover, even if she looked nothing like them. Outside of the port cities, she doubted anyone would know the difference.

“Brigid?” The other woman drew back and blinked at her. “That explains it. Forgive me, but it’s impossible to mistake you for someone native to Fόdlan.”

“I’m sure.” Shamir quelled a sigh. She had heard similar sentiments before. Dagdan profiles were more distinct than their Fόdlanic counterparts. The prominence of her nose, the slope of her eyes; all of it marked her as other. To the woman’s credit, she offered an apologetic smile.

“Apologies, Lady Shay. I meant no offense. I’m just surprised to see someone from so far away taking refuge in our little village.”

“I’m not a lady.” Shamir couldn’t help the inadvertent wrinkle of her nose at this title. Catherine teased her with it on occasion, but it was unwelcome from others. Fόdlan propriety did nothing but aggravate. “Nor am I in the clergy. You can refer to me by my name alone, if need be. Nothing more.”

“Alright...” The expecting mother’s face visibly strained. Her previous smile crumbled with unease. After a tense period of silence, Shamir finally took pity on the woman.

“The war brought me and my partner here. Bothild was kind enough to take us in.” She moved away from the corner, taking the chair the nun had occupied. The woman, Leid as she recalled, looked pleased.

“She’s a generous and talented woman. We’re fortunate to have her.” She adjusted the sheet around her legs idly. “It was a shock when the news trickled from the south. We trusted the Church and its servants as any other, yet… Well, those who lived in the chapel did not stay for long. Hard times those, and they only got worse as time went on.”

Lied shook her head, dark braid falling over her chest.

“Times are better now that she’s here. Though, some would rather she leave. They distrust her; something I can’t understand when the Sister has given us so much.”

“Their faith is broken. They might recognize her actions as beneficial, but they still see the master she served.” Shamir crossed her arms and settled deeper into the chair. “It’ll take a long time before people look kindly upon the Church again. If they ever do at all.”

“You might be right.” The pregnant woman laid her fingers along her stomach. She smoothed the fabric of her shirt self-consciously. “This is talk better suited for people more learned than I. Tell me about yourself? The town has been abuzz with all sorts of rumors since you arrived.”

“Has it?” Shamir scowled, unimpressed by the news. Leid nodded sincerely, not reading the irony in her question.

“Other than those two children and the Sister, the chapel has been long vacant. It was quite a surprise to hear of two strangers living there." The woman eyed her hesitantly for a moment. “Again, you’re very different than most. Rumors birthed quickly after we started seeing you around the market.”

“Hmm.” The Dagdan woman tapped a nail against her forearm. “And what was the content? Did anxious wives fear my approach to their husbands and sons? Did the stalls watch my hands and pockets for missing wares?”

“No!” Green eyes widened. “Please, don’t think they thought ill of you. I swear the whispers were mostly harmless.”

Leid squirmed and winced.

“Some… did think you were comely. But it was innocent admiration, I believe. Mostly from men who were still unwed. But, if I may, there was far more interest in what you were doing in Culann. Many believe you to be a relative of the Sister.”

“I’m not. It was mere happenstance that brought us here,” Shamir explained, thoroughly exasperated. It was not awful, chatting with the woman. But she would rather not add to the apparent, bustling rumor mill. It was hardly a surprise they would be the talk of the town. There was little else for bored tongues to do other than wag. “If anyone asks, you can tell them we plan to leave soon. My partner and I will be gone before winter sets in fully.”

“Ah, I’ll make sure to pass that along.” A lengthy pause ensued as Leid seemed to ponder something. Her freckled face scrunched. “Your partner is the other woman, correct? I don’t think I’ve seen her much.”

“She busies herself by helping your smith, Weyland."

“Oh! That’s who’s been helping him?” A pink tinge passed over the woman’s face. “Bernard and I needed a fix for our door the other week. We didn’t stay long, but I thought I saw someone different in the workshop. She’s… rather tall and broad of shoulder. I mistook her for a man, at first.”

Shamir chose not to comment on this. She knew very well the figure her partner cut. Catherine was intimidating in stature and fair besides. Yet unlike her, the attention drawn by this was easy to deal with. She refocused on Leid as she continued.

“You called her your partner. Does this mean the two of you are…?”

Unbidden, a denial nearly left her lips; a habit formed by years of repetition. But Shamir stilled as she realized she could finally answer in the affirmative. Satisfaction burned in her chest as the words left her lips.

“We are.” Shamir allowed her posture to loosen into something more amiable. “You can pass that along as well.”

“That’s lovely. A bit disappointing for some, but they’ll get over it.” The woman tittered in the delicate way of polite society. It struck the Dagdan woman then, the oddity of her mannerisms. There was a formal cadence to Leid’s speech that was distinct from the loose accent of Gautier. She sounded educated; more-so than a mere cobbler’s wife could attain.

“You’re not from here either, are you? You’re too well-spoken to be from rural Faerghus.” She chanced the inquiry, inspecting her companion’s face. Leid’s expression faltered.

“...No. I’m not at all.” She fiddled with her hands nervously. “I’m originally from Enbarr. My family is nowhere near nobility, but the previous Emperor was a patron of my father. He’s a painter, you see.”

“So how did a painter’s daughter become a cobbler's wife?” Shamir raised a brow, genuinely curious. Leid smiled, a redolent thing that tugged at her eyes.

“It was a long series of events and coincidences. To summarize, my love came to Enbarr looking for work. As you can imagine, Bernard isn’t very well-to-do or charismatic, and he offended more than a few potential clients. However, my father thought he was funny. In the sort of way a scruffy dog is when it comes in from the rain.”

“Patronizing.”

“Just so.” The woman shrugged. “Anyway, my father took humor in Bernard and decided to hire him. Now my father was perpetually busy and he could hardly check on the status of his boots himself, so he sent me in his stead. I’ll spare you the details, but I found myself growing fond of the funny little cobbler. Love grew from there.”

“And you followed him to Faerghus of all places?” Shamir stared at her, unable to hide her disdain.

“This was before all the fighting. And it wasn’t done without a great measure of trepidation.” Leid looked out the window. Snow had yet to fall again, but the dense clouds above appeared ready to release their burden. “When I arrived, it was the beginning of fall. Yet it was already dreadfully cold. I nearly spirited myself away atop the nearest caravan, but Bernard convinced me to stay. Not immediately, but over the months that followed.”

“How did he manage that?”

“With small but great things. Soothing my fears. Tolerating my moods. Making me laugh when I needed it most.” The woman brought her eyes back to Shamir. “But most of all, I think it was a matter of trust.”

“In him, you mean.”

“Yes.” Her fingers, small and spindly, plucked at her quilt. “I’ll not say it was easy, because it wasn’t. Many looked upon me warily, likely expecting me to abandon my new husband. For a time, I wondered the same. When the war began with Adrestia, my fears only grew. Yet despite it all, my faith in Bernard held strong. And with time and patience, I was proven right to do so.”

“Mere trust banished your concerns?” Shamir pursed her lips, not content with the explanation. Leid’s face pulled and she eyed the Dagdan woman sidelong.

“On the contrary, I don’t find trust to be a paltry thing. Sometimes, when there’s nothing else, it’s all you have to offer.” She trailed a careful hand down her swollen abdomen. “It’s amazing what a little trust will grant you. Love is grand, but I don’t think it would have carried me this far without something more.”

“You have great faith in him,” Shamir observed. The woman bobbed her head.

“I do, but it’s well earned. For all these years, he’s treated me quite well. I’ve no reason to believe he would lead me astray.” Her prying look returned. “Don’t you feel similarly for your partner?”

The question was unexpected as it was jarring. Shamir did not often find herself taken aback, let alone by a simple curiosity. Words eluded her as she opened her mouth. Thankfully, the return of Bothild and the cobbler distracted them both. Shamir rose and retreated to the far corner, relieved as the man stole Leid’s attention.

She leaned against the wall, comforted by the drape of shadows. The speculative gleam in Bothild’s gaze went pointedly ignored. Whether the older woman was aware of her inadvertent machinations went unsaid. However, she had an inkling this conversation was no coincidence. Shamir did not know how to feel about that.

She watched, gloved fingers curling, as the rest talked among themselves. The question posed crept through her thoughts. Did she trust Catherine? In many ways, it was unthinkable to consider otherwise. They had fought at each other’s side and licked each other’s wounds. Physically, she could think of no one better to entrust her life. Even in her partner’s more impulsive moments, Catherine proved a stalwart companion. In the wake of Fhirdiad, that dynamic had fractured briefly. A point in time they were long past at present. Yet that wasn’t the same manner of trust put into question.

Shamir considered the night previous. Revealing her past did not come lightly. She would not have granted the honor to just anyone. And Catherine had been so understanding; her interest clear and sympathy felt. Once, Shamir would have expected judgment from the former Knight. Now, she knew better. Unlike so many of her peers, Catherine accepted everything she was and everything she had been. In a way, that trust was greater than what she placed in her goddess. But Catherine had always been a woman of unbending faith. Could Shamir, bereft of confidence even in the divine, say she felt the same?

_Do I trust her so completely? _ _אם כן_ _, _ _האם זה חכם להמשיך_ _?_

Shamir looked to the window. A dark gathering of clouds loomed in the distance. She had placed her faith in someone once before. It was a choice she would later rue as she stared at his rotting corpse; an unintended betrayal yet one weathered regardless. Shamir did not know if she could suffer it a second time. But, a part of her knew, it might already be too late.

* * *

_They returned to camp once the enemy encampment was routed. For the first time in the better part of a fortnight, the Myrddin was free of bandits. Of course, it had hardly been a smooth process. Catherine, bold and moronic woman that she was, had engaged the hostile forces with reckless abandon. What the woman had been thinking, Shamir couldn’t begin to fathom._

_She had known the Knight was impulsive, but she hadn’t expected the woman to nearly get herself killed. If the Dagdan woman had been a step slower, her new ‘partner’ would be floating at the bottom of a river bed. She had insisted as much to her afterward, voice rough with frustration. However, the Knight had just waved her off flippantly._

_“I knew you were nearby,” she said, laughing away the rebuke. “Heh, but you’re a devil with that bow! You split that rogue’s skull like an apple. Maybe we should try to sneak you into the next tourney?”_

_Shamir was far from amused, but Catherine didn’t appear cowed by her glare. The Knight couldn’t be moved by disapproval, she found, other than when it concerned the Archbishop. So instead of continuing the argument, Shamir let the subject drop. If the woman desired an early grave, then that was her prerogative. She would not spare the time to convince a simpleton. But the heat of her annoyance failed to cool._

_As time wore on, light being traded for shadow, Shamir could not stop herself from sending venomous looks in Catherine’s direction. The Knight feigned obliviousness at first, likely hoping her temper would abate. Finally, after countless glowers and crisp exchanges, her partner heaved a sigh._

_“You know, Shamir, I've never had someone stare at me so passionately before.” Catherine rubbed beneath her jaw. Her lips twisted into a sardonic grin. “Shall I take this as proof of admiration? Alas, I’ll need to decline. You’re much too serious for my tastes.”_

_“You’re a fool.” Shamir turned her back to the woman, slinging her bow beside the cot. She kept her tone hushed to deter any unwanted eavesdropping. The walls of their shared tent were woefully thin and she would rather not draw attention. "I knew you to be impulsive, but I thought you had some sense.”_

_“That’s a bold assumption.” The Knight shrugged out of her breastplate. “How about you lower your expectations for me? Maybe then I’ll finally earn your approval.”_

_“I don’t require you to be a paragon of restraint. I only want you to think before rushing into certain death.”_

_“Certain?” Catherine made a show of looking at her body. She pressed her hands atop her torso, as if in shock. “I had no idea I was dead. Tell me, can a corpse still drink?”_

_“You would have drank your fill had I not arrived.” Shamir rankled at the woman’s attempts at humor. She tolerated it most days, but not now. “Does a belly full of river water appeal to you? Perhaps you would have enjoyed the fish nibbling on your bones.”_

_Resignation replaced Catherine’s frivolous demeanor._

_"Alright… I get it. You've made your point." She adopted a grimace before collapsing on her cot. “Look, I didn’t plan for it to get so out of hand. And you’re right, I wasn’t thinking—”_

_“Nice of you to state the obvious,” Shamir replied sourly. The Knight scowled, but a flicker of remorse passed over her features._

_“I was going to say I wasn’t thinking of **everything**. Contrary to what you might believe, there was logic to my actions.”_

_“Go on and share them, so I can ridicule those too.”_

_“Goddess, you’re frosty when angered.” She blinked at the Dagdan woman; owlish and bemused. “Are you like this with everyone or am I getting special treatment?”_

_“No one else tests my patience like you. Consider yourself lucky.” Shamir set her teeth, jaw working. The Knight must have read the mounting anger beneath the words. Her expression composed into something grave._

_“Rushing in there was foolhardy, I won’t deny that. Had there been a better way to solve the problem, I wouldn’t have acted with haste.” Suddenly, Shamir was no longer faced with the lackadaisical braggart she was used to enduring. A freeze hardened the woman’s eyes to ice. “You read the reports. The things they had done. The things they would have continued to do. I couldn’t let that continue.”_

_“You don’t strike me as the type to get riled over injustice.”_

_A strange look flit over Catherine’s face._

_“Maybe not. But when you have the power to act, it’s hard not to follow through.” Her lips twitched and she played with the leather cord around her neck. “I won’t lie to you. It gave me great pleasure to cut them down. Whether they were truly as heinous as described is moot. In the name of justice or simple blood-lust, I acted in my own interests.”_

_“You’re doing a piss-poor job making me sympathize.” Shamir unlaced her boots, tired of staring at the Knight’s smug face._

_“Let me finish before you judge me.” Catherine chuckled. “It was obvious they needed to be dealt with. Quick and dirty just seemed to be the best way to go about it. Letting a sore fester just means a bigger mess later.”_

_“This all sounds like a roundabout justification for doing as you please." The Dagdan woman turned her back, eyes-rolling. She tossed her jacket aside. "Just admit you had no concern for both your well-being and mine.”_

_“What?” A great deal of surprise colored the outburst. “That’s not true at all.”_

_Shamir felt a tongue of anger slide up her neck. She twisted to face her partner, bristling like a cat. However, the mockery she expected was nowhere to be seen. The Knight’s face was genuinely appalled._

_“You charged the field without a glance my way, heedless if I were to follow or not.” Shamir stripped off her gloves, motions sharp as her mood. “How is that not proof of your apathy?”_

_“It wasn’t due to a lack of concern.” Catherine canted her head to the side, eyes roving her partner’s face. “Rather, it was because I had faith you would be near.”_

_“You and your faith.” A snarling disgust Shamir couldn’t hide wrapped around the statement. The Dagdan woman had heard similar sentiments from the other Knights she had worked with. All of them boorish and stubborn in their worship. They believed their goddess would shield them from death and tossed aside self-preservation in favor of it. As if any deity, real or imagined, would bother to protect any one individual. The arrogance of it infuriated her. “Are you that convinced of your importance? Do you truly think your goddess will save you from every blade stroke? אִידיוֹט!”_

_“While I believe in the Goddess’ will, I’m not that simple-minded.” The Knight appeared exhausted then. She tore the tie from her hair, shaking out the strands. “And the faith I speak of wasn’t in Her protection. Instead, I placed it in you.”_

_“If this is another joke, I’m not laughing.”_

_“Neither am I,” Catherine replied without pause. “We’ve spent all these months together; fighting, bleeding, training. I knew you would be close behind, if not at my heel. Is it so strange that I would trust you?”_

_Shamir stilled, unnerved with the conviction seen, but also shocked. Trust was not something anyone had expressed regarding her. Not among the other Knights nor within the mercenary bands she had joined. As for Catherine… Shamir had not expected anything from her at all. This revelation was not an unwelcome one, but it raised the hairs on her neck regardless._

_“You couldn’t know if I would choose to save you.” She avoided the Knight’s stare. There was an assessing cast to the woman’s features she didn’t care to see. “For all you knew, I would let you fall to teach you a lesson.”_

_“You’ve never failed me before, so why should I fear it?” The question was followed by a breathy laugh. “Life’s a gamble, but I’m not afraid to place my bets on you.”_

_“That’s a foolhardy way to live. People disappoint just as easy as gods.” Shamir willed herself to stay in the present. However, the earthen smell of a grave refused to leave. Her hand ached to reach for the dagger at her belt._

_“True but that's why it's called faith, right? If everything was certain, then trust would be a mere formality." Catherine smiled, but it was sleepy and directionless. She locked her hands behind her head, eyes closed. "You know, I think belief in a person is quite similar to worship. Tell me, what offerings of devotion would you like?"_

_Shamir ignored the tease in favor of extinguishing the lantern. She heard the Knight make a faint noise, perhaps a muffled laugh. Silence fell over them, and the stillness paved way for private musings. She didn't know what to make of Catherine's observation. The great majority of her wanted to dismiss it as absurd ramblings. Yet something in the words gave Shamir pause._

_In the end, she forced her eyes to close and embraced the empty quiet. The other woman was just goading her, she decided. The trust she spoke of did not extend beyond the field. Surely, that was the crux of this temporary partnership._

* * *

On a morning colder than average, Shamir awoke to find her partner missing from their bed. It was not a rare occurrence, Catherine was committed to her work and often departed in the early hours. The Dagdan woman slept light, ever aware of her surroundings, but she could not recall hearing Catherine leave. She placed a hand atop her lover’s pillow. The lack of warmth ignited a spark of concern. It seemed the former Knight had been up for a while, but why?

Shamir rose, dressing quickly before scouring the chapel. The children were still asleep, snoring away in their rooms. Bothild's door was ajar and a momentary glance revealed the nun was also missing. The well of unease from the day prior returned. She clutched her coat tight as she walked out into the snow. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she found the absent pair standing by a wagon. They were speaking softly, barely heard over the whipping breeze. Shamir caught the tail end of the exchange as she approached.

“—tha. It’s not a long ride, but I would err on the side of caution. Those clouds are looking fierce.”

“Maybe, but I think it’s worth the danger.” Catherine raised her head and blue eyes focused on the Dagdan woman. Something like reluctance clouded her face. Then, it fled as quickly as it appeared. Shamir tried not to let her suspicion deepen at this, but ultimately failed. Her steps hastened.

“Shay… you’re awake.” The former Knight turned, hands folded beneath her arms. The visible tensing of her shoulders caused Shamir’s eyes to narrow.

“Was I not meant to be?” She stared at her partner intently. A displeased huff came from near the wagon. Shamir frowned as she spotted their horse hitched to the front. “You’re taking the wagon back to the miller then.”

“I am.”

“And you didn’t think to wake me?” The Dagdan woman stomped closer, deeply annoyed. “This may come as a shock, but I don’t enjoy wondering where you might be. A quick word would be all it takes.”

“I wasn’t going to set off without notice. I just needed to settle some things.” Catherine commented, tone sheepish. “These roads aren’t known to me, after all. It wouldn’t be wise to venture onward without guidance.”

“The miller can’t be that far off.” Shamir scoffed. Her knot lodged in her ribs as her partner looked away. She waited, breathless with anxiety, as Catherine rubbed the base of her neck. It was a nervous habit she recognized well. After a pause, the taller woman addressed Bothild.

“Could you leave us alone for a moment? We need to discuss some things.”

The nun nodded and moved towards the chapel. Shamir’s hands balled as the older woman’s eyed lingered upon her. She didn’t need or appreciate pity. Hoping in vain the tight pain in her chest did not spell disaster, she stared up into Catherine’s face. Her partner’s expression was strangely smooth, but an air of resignation could be felt between them.

“Where are you going?” Shamir finally demanded. Catherine stole a look at the sky before bringing her gaze to the far road.

“Culann is going to fall. Not today, but soon. You’ve said as much before.” The former Knight gestured at the distant village. “They need food and supplies, all of which have been dwindling for months. They won’t last through the Ethereal Moon.”

“I don’t see how that concerns us.” It was a statement of fact more than anything. Still, the tight clench of Catherine’s jaw revealed her disapproval.

“We owe these people, Shamir. Maybe you don’t see it the way I do, but I can’t help but feel indebted.” Blue eyes hardened becoming steely. “I’ll not flee in the night and leave them to die when I could have helped. Perhaps I would have been happy with that once, but not anymore.”

“So your lost sense of honor is finally making a return. Is that what you’re telling me?” Shamir struggled to keep her tone civil, but it proved difficult. “I know you’ve grown fond of this place, but you can’t involve yourself in their misfortune. This isn’t something you can solve on a whim.”

“I don’t take their burden lightly. Nor do I believe I can fix everything for the better. But does that mean I shouldn’t try?” Catherine took a measured breath. “When I think of their suffering, of the slow end that awaits them, I feel helpless. They deserve better than this, Shamir."

“They can choose to leave.”

“And seek shelter where? Fill their bellies with what?” The former Knight bared her teeth, a familiar sign of frustration; yet not one Shamir expected to be directed at her. “Their lives are here in Culann. Most, I know, would rather die than abandon it. Surely, you must recognize that too.”

“Catherine...” The Dagdan woman swallowed, throat lodged with something hard and cold. Her voice trembled as she forced herself to speak. “This town can’t be saved. If we stay, the longer we risk discovery. Do you want to throw your life away in the name of debt only you acknowledge?”

There was a long moment where only the wind could be heard. The granite jut of Catherine’s jaw refused to ease, but her eyes softened in spite of this. She clasped Shamir’s hand.

“You’re worried. I can see it in every facet of you. And I know uncertainty is frightening.” A calloused thumb traced circles around the Dagdan woman’s wrist. “However, I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of fleeing from the Empire’s shadow. I’m tired of leaving home after home because of choices I refuse to make. I’m tired of ignoring the right course of action because I was too cowardly to face it.”

“Fear keeps you alive,” Shamir whispered. Her partner smiled; fond but also sad.

“Sure, but would it be a life worth keeping?” Catherine used her other hand to cup the shorter woman’s face. “You encouraged me to be brave. Most of all, you pushed me to be honest and to stand on my own terms. So here I am. Whether we stay for the winter is another matter, but for now, this is what I am resolved to do.”

“What happens if you’re captured, or worse?" Shamir shut her eyes tight. Her pulse fluttered as gruesome possibilities ran through her mind. "I won’t allow you to wander the countryside without aid. I’m going with you.”

“And leave Bothild to deliver a babe by herself?” Catherine tugged her close and kissed the side of her head. “I think she’ll need you more than I. Besides, I won’t be gone long. I already have a plan in mind.”

“Something short-sighted and reckless, no doubt.” Shamir clutched at her partner’s coat with bloodless fingers.

“Ha, you know me too well.” Catherine squeezed her waist affectionately. Then she began to pull away but a fierce yank stopped her immediately. She sent a questioning look to her partner. Shamir held her still for a time, searching her face for an assurance she could not feel. Then she tugged the taller woman down and seized her into a painful kiss. Their teeth knocked, lips cutting on bone. It was a desperate and inelegant thing; punishment and question in one. Catherine accepted it without complaint and hummed into the taste of blood. The embrace calmed as the sharp pang of fear was soothed. Finally, Catherine pulled back.

“I love you.” She grinned broadly. The gesture stretched the edges of her mouth, raw and pink from their embrace. Shamir did not say it in return, but she tapped her fingers beneath the woman’s collar. A lock of pale gold was twisted around her index.

“Say it again when you return.” The words formed without her knowledge, carrying a certainty she was shocked to discover. _When, not if. _Shamir forced herself to solidify this as fact. _Catherine will come back to me. She must. _As her partner climbed aboard the wagon and offered a jaunty salute, Shamir repeated this sentiment. Again and again, until doubt was forced to concede its place.

So she stayed and watched as the golden rays of dawn bathed her lover’s form. Eventually, the sight of Catherine’s fair head grew distant. When she could no longer see her, a tremulous breath was taken, tipped with the unbearable fangs of winter. The pain was steadying but it also served as a reminder. Life was fragile and so was mortal flesh. Yet Shamir refused to allow fear to rule her. It was with this insistence that quelled her urge to give chase.

Later, once the day had grown long, Bothild found her on the chapel porch. Shamir barely registered her arrival, eyes pinned to where her partner had vanished within the copse. The nun allowed her silence, taking a seat in a nearby wicker chair. Together, they scanned the trees and withstood the biting air. An undefinable length of time crept by before the nun spoke.

“I half expected you to follow. I’m not disappointed, but I am a bit shocked.” Bothild laced her fingers atop her lap. “You looked about ready to dart after that wagon and drag the poor woman home by the ear.”

“I couldn’t make that choice for her. Even if I begged, I knew she wouldn’t listen.” Shamir placed a hand across her temple. She attempted to alleviate the pain behind her eyes. “When we first met, I was relieved not to be saddled with a typical Faerghus soldier – proper, stately, and so very consumed with chivalry. Cassia had none of those qualities, or so I thought.”

“So she’s finally awoken to all that, has she?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was always there, just hidden.” The Dagdan woman shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Now she’s completely wrapped in her little quest to save this village.”

“Is that so wrong?” The nun asked. The question was plaintive, but also sharp. Shamir eyed the older woman, stare not quite forbidding but close.

“I respect all you’ve done for us, but we have too many concerns to burden ourselves with yours. We’re travelers here and we don’t intend to stay.” Shamir scowled as she was reminded of her partner’s inquiry. They didn’t belong in a place like this, no matter how much Catherine might wish otherwise. Their lives were too bloody; their history too complex. If they remained, it was destined to be temporary. Some may have made a home of this frozen wasteland, but that was not her desire. Shamir glanced at her host, reminded of the woman’s manipulations.

“Were you aware of Leid’s history?” She demanded in a rush. Bothild’s expression was unmoved, but her hands did twitch. “You left me with her on purpose. Didn’t you?”

“I thought you could find common ground.” The nun stated simply. Her tone was suspiciously neutral. Shamir knew better than to accept the thin excuse.

“You’re fortunate I enjoy your company.” She sighed, masking her vexation. “I don’t understand why you’re so keen on us staying. We don’t have anything to offer.”

“I disagree. However, I won’t fight you on it.” Bothild adjusted her position and sat deeper in the cushion. Her eyes tore from the younger woman and hovered over the forest. “I suppose I have trouble fathoming your reasons why. Do you despise this town so deeply?”

“I don’t bear Culann any ill-will. Yet I doubt your people will last until the spring. I know better than to stay in a place on the brink of collapse.”

“The town is struggling, but it’s not without hope. If effort is given, it will flourish again.” The measured certainty in the nun’s voice galled her. Shamir bit back an incredulous scoff.

“That’s nothing more than wishful thinking.”

“Maybe so,” Bothild hedged smoothly. The short answer did nothing to placate the younger woman's nerves.

“It’s more than that. I know because I lived it. Do you think this place unique; beyond the purview of decay? I think not.” She nipped her cheek, hard enough to whet her tongue with the taste of copper. “I lived in a small village like this. Poor, desperate. A snug community full of people too stubborn to leave. But that choice earned only misery. Sickness and hunger ran rampant. Despite this, they did nothing to correct it.”

The Dagdan woman cut her eyes to the nun.

“I do not see settling as reasonable or wise. How can you expect to move forward if you’re constantly staying still? It makes no sense to me.”

“You don’t need to be in motion to move forward.” Bothild scrutinized her features levelly. “I think you’ll find that we often find solutions in the stillness.”

“Pretty words. A shame they mean so little.”

“You don’t trust my assurances.” For all the disappointment implied by the statement, the nun didn’t seem particularly troubled. Her mouth formed a wry curve. “Yet what if they came from another?”

“What are you implying?” Shamir’s eyed narrowed, but Bothild was undaunted.

“You keep faith with Cassia more than anyone. So my question is this. If she came to you now and professed her wish to stay, how would you react?” The dark line of Bothild’s brow arched. “If she told you everything would be well, would you believe her?”

"I..." Shamir hesitated. Naturally, she wanted to insist on the negative. Catherine could be flighty and irrational, evidenced by her actions in Charon. However, that incident was circumstantial and spurred by extreme duress. Freed from the Church and the burden of her past, the Catherine she knew presently was a breed apart. As she was, would Shamir place her faith in her?

_Yes_, she found. _I would. And I do._ At this recognition, the fight drained from the Dagdan woman.

“If she were to ask…” She stared into the cloudless sky. “I might consider it.”

Bothild hummed faintly and the wicker beneath her creaked. The conversation petered from there, the nun seemingly content with the concession. Idly, Shamir wondered at the places her partner might go and what sights she may see. There was something nostalgic about the notion; but, rather than irked, she found herself wishing for the woman’s swift return. The knot of fear she held did not dissipate, but it loosened its grip. Only slightly, but it was evident all the same. Suddenly she recalled a conversation from long ago about the nature of faith.

Even in Dagda, Shamir did not hold confidence in divinity. Yet trusting Catherine was second-nature. It filled her soul deeper than anything she had ever known. If this feeling was anything like the stalwart faith of the devout, Shamir felt she might finally understand them.

_Do not make a widow of me before we can wed. _ _לעולם לא אסלח לך אחרת_ _._

**Next Chapter: Flux**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Before I get started into the nitty-gritty of the chapter, I wanted to expand on the title. Before any quench, there is a period of uncertainty. You don't know what will happen and you can't be sure that chemistry will be in your favor. But if you don't, you'll never know if the work is botched or perfectly fine. It's a leap of faith; just with metal. And yes, I am very much romanticizing something completely banal but that's just how my brain works lol. As for the stuff with Shamir, I hope you guys are enjoying my take on her past. There's so much in canon that was left up to the imagination. As with Catherine, I knew I had to fill in some of those gaps. She strikes me as a person who has a complicated view on settling down, and it made me curious why. Once again, I hope my headcanons were entertaining! I would appreciate any thoughts you all might have. As always, you can reach out to me by email or twitter if you have any questions. Thank you for reading everyone! Stay safe <3 ~ AdraCat


	17. Flux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A former Knight makes a small, but important journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my beta, johnxfire <3

For all of Catherine's confidence, she balked upon leaving Culann. It was not the journey ahead that daunted her. She knew what needed to be done. The thought of failure galvanized, but she refused to shirk the responsibility. Yet the distance presented a greater fear. She had come far; struggled and clawed her way from the person she had been. However, would it be enough? She had grown from the woman who willingly took a city to the torch. By her desire, and also by Shamir's steadying influence. Yet Catherine could not be certain she was any better than the Knight who tossed her agency aside. Still, she wanted to take the chance to find out.

And as Catherine traveled away from the village, she held this conviction close. It spurred her onward until the settlement was consumed by the white of snow and birch. She tried not to think of the ever-present influence of the Empire, nor the encroachment of wandering patrols. Most of the forts lay south of the Maw, but a few were scattered throughout the region. Say what you will of the Margrave; none could claim he had failed in his duty. Whether his son would rise to meet that competence was another matter.

The former Knight kept her eye on the roads all the same. She would not allow herself to be stopped by a wayward patrol. The village needed her. A worthy cause, though not a particularly glorious one. Catherine spared a moment to muse on the past she cast aside. Cassandra of Charon had once yearned for glory. Had she known what would become of her, what unkind thoughts would have sprung forth? A fallen Knight questing to save an insignificant speck of a town. It sounded like an operatic tragedy waiting to happen. She sobered then, grip tightening on the reins. As if sensing her change in mood, Saloma's pace quickened.

True to Weyland's direction, the miller's home was a short ride. The man's land was not particularly sizable at first glance, but she imagined the snow concealed the fertile soil he plied his trade. His house loomed generously, stretching a good length. As Catherine neared, she spotted a spindly looking fellow shoveling ice from the porch. He looked up as she stopped by the wooden gate. Upon closer inspection, it was clear he was young.

“Hey there.” She hailed him with a friendly wave before clambering off the wagon. “Might you be the miller’s boy? I got your wagon; fresh axle and everything.”

The young man did not speak. He eyed her silently from beneath a mop of straw, form rigid with something unknown. Catherine frowned. She ambled closer, hand falling reflexively atop her pilfered sword. It was from reflex more than anything; a warrior’s habits were hard to break. However, the action caused alarm to fill the young man’s features. He raised the broom defensively.

“Whoa, now! I’m not here to stir trouble.” Catherine raised her hands and backed away a step. She huffed with exasperation, somewhat regretting her decision to bring the blade. Only soldiers or bandits were armed on the roads, and she was neither. “You can see the wagon behind me, can’t you? I swear I’m only here to return it. Nothing more.”

“You’re not the smith.” The young man lowered his makeshift weapon tentatively. “I gave the wagon for him to fix. I don’t know you.”

“Weyland is my employer. I’ve been helping him these last couple of months.” Catherine gestured behind her. “The wagon is as good as new now. But I do have a favor to ask, if you wouldn’t mind hearing me out.”

The young man squirmed in place, licking his lips nervously. Swiftly, the door at his back flew open. A much older man strode onto the porch, fair hair nearly run through with white. His expression was prying, the tanned planes of his cheeks taut with pensive rigor.

“Any business you have will be conducted with me.” The presumed miller glanced at his son, brows raising in a pointed motion. The younger man nodded before scurrying inside. Grey eyes slid back to Catherine. “Most honest folk don’t go around carrying a sword these days; too costly of a tool. Save for the Margrave’s soldiers, but you don’t look the sort.”

“I served under the late King. After Fhirdiad fell, I couldn’t find it in me to sell it off.” The former Knight shrugged carelessly. “I only meant to return your property, not to scare anyone. Apologies.”

“No harm was done. That boy of mine could use a good scare, considering he was ready to fend you off with a broom.” The miller scratched beneath his chin, chuckling faintly. “You said you had a favor to ask?”

“I did. I know Weyland offered to do the work at a pittance, but I'm hoping you'll add a little more to that deal." She crossed her arms, favoring the man with an even stare. "Culann is suffering. It'll fall if nothing is done. I know it would be too much to ask for your stores, so I was hoping you could lend me your insight. Along with the use of your wagon, but only for a trip or two."

The miller chewed on that for a while before eventually humming in acquiescence. The bob of his head was amiable.

“Sure. I don’t see any harm in that. We won’t need it until the spring anyway. What do you wish to know?”

“Weyland told me you sell your grain to the neighboring settlements. Were any of them large enough to be comfortably stocked in supplies? And would they be amenable to trade?”

“Hmm." His mouth curved downward as he pondered. "Depends on the sort of trade. Most are small and self-sufficient. Any reserves they have would be saved for their people. I don't think many would be keen to sell. Times are hard, and lean days are ahead."

“You can't think of any?" Catherine deflated, stomach twisting. "Surely there must be some that could afford the loss."

“Sorry, Miss, but I can’t say there are.” The man paused, head tilting slightly. “Well, there is the barony. But that lies beyond the border. It’ll be a hard ride through the cold.”

“Itha..." The former Knight considered the suggestion. It wasn't an unmanageable distance. Yet the potential to be spotted by imperial troops was high. The barony in question was not unknown to her. Bothild had helpfully suggested the same when she mentioned her plan. However, the risk involved made Catherine wary. "You think this baron will listen? I don't want to make the trek without a good reason."

“Aye. I think he would. Rumor has it that his holding is falling into disarray. With Fhirdiad’s loss, there’s only the Duke and House Gautier to seek aid from. Since Duke Blaiddyd has withdrawn into seclusion, the baron’s options are limited.”

“Are his food stores dwindling?”

“No chance of that. He owns a great majority of Itha's farms. It's how his family rose to prominence." The miller pulled thoughtfully at his beard. "Yet that wealth comes with terrible scrutiny. He's made himself a popular target for bandits. Thankfully, his men can keep them mostly at bay. But steady attacks mean great damage and he has little means of upkeep."

“So he could use metalworkers,” Catherine surmised. Her mind raced with possibility, spirits lifting. “Ha… Bothild was right.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t mind me.” She waved off his befuddled look off before diving changing the topic. “You’ve been a great help. If everything you’ve said is true, then Culann may greet the spring.”

“Well, I wouldn't know anything about that. But I can't say I mind your praise." The man broke into a peal of laughter. "I wish you luck. Oh, but do take care on those roads. Robbers are aplenty, but some armored gents were coming from the south. They might stop you and ask after that blade of yours."

“Do you mean the Gautier troops? They’ve already moved into the pass, last time I checked.”

“Nay, not Gautier men.” The miller hesitated visibly. His sun-bleached face pinched as his brows came together. “They had the banner, aye. But the plate looked wrong. Ever since Lord Gautier pledged his arm to the Empire, silver mail was traded for black.”

“Impersonators?” Catherine tensed, lips pursed.

“I can’t say, Miss. I keep my nose pointed firmly down. It’s a smarter way to live.” The man shrugged before blinking up at the sky. “Some nasty clouds might be rolling in. Best of luck to you, and thank you for fixing that wagon. You can use it as you need. Goddess knows we won’t have a use for it when the blizzards start rolling in.”

Catherine watched him leave, frowning at his back. A passing wind snaked across her nape and slithered down her spine. Having imperial troops so close to Culann was an unnerving concept. However, a known enemy was better than an unknown force. If those men were not allied with the Empire, there was no reason for them to head into the Maw.

She shook her head and walked to the waiting horse, forcing away any wild speculation. Whether for good or ill, those soldiers were not her concern. And who was to say the miller was correct in his assessment? Surely it was just the imaginings of an untrained eye. Only that and nothing more.

* * *

The Itha plains were not considered an official holding in and of itself. The swathe of land belonged tangentially to House Blaiddyd; a perfect consolation to a man who would never be King. The plains were arable, for the north, but the Duke’s governance was infamously loose. Rufus had rested comfortably on the throne for many years before his nephew was crowned. Itha was but an afterthought in his mind, and malcontent resulted. The months of self-imposed isolation exacerbated matters.

It was that sort of weak leadership that caused Itha's agriculture to be bought from underneath House Blaiddyd. Within a matter of years, an ambitious merchant family rose to prominence and the only control Rufus maintained was in name. Or such was how the story went according to the barony residents. Catherine did not know how much of that was truth or fabrication. The land was dense, composed of clustered settlements and a modest estate. As the miller had stated, homes and shops seemed to be in disrepair.

The streets were conspicuously vacant of life. Wealthy or no, it seemed the baron was struggling to handle the constant raids – a terrible happenstance for those who lived within his territory – but an excellent opportunity for her. Due to the vacant area, it was an easy feat to glean where his home was located. While small, the estate rose from the earth like a gaudy sore; painted white as porcelain and edged in gold. It lay at the edge of the largest township, surrounded by walls larger than most forts.

The sight did not inspire confidence. Catherine had known similar men who rose to fame by right of wealth. They were all of a similar caliber; self-important, vain, and continuously grasping for recognition. This baron was presumably of the same nature. However, assumption made fools of better people than her and Catherine was not in the habit of stopping at the finish. Whatever the man's temperament, he was her best chance of securing Culann's future.

So she rode through his estate with purpose, hopes high. She didn’t require him to grant her every concession. He only needed to listen. It was in the Goddess’ hands from there. Perhaps Shamir would have called her foolish to still hold faith so dear, as was only natural for her sharp tongue. Briefly, Catherine felt a pang of longing for her partner. It was never easy to be apart from the other woman. She pushed it away, knowing she would see Shamir soon. Of course, that was assuming she didn’t gut the baron’s men.

The former Knight stood at the door, hand itching to draw her sword. The guard at the door had spotted her upon approach and quickly stopped her short. She didn’t fault the man. His job was to ward away suspect individuals. However, patience was not a virtue she touted.

“Just tell the baron I have a proposition for him. That’s all I ask. Surely, that’s not too strenuous a request?” She straightened atop her mount, channeling the lord she had been. The guard wasn’t impressed. He scoured her frame, no doubt noting the tattered cloth of her cloak and the messy spill of her hair.

“Baron Friuch is busy. He has no time to spare for frivolous matters.” The man spoke in a flat tone. His words sounded rote, recited endlessly to various other visitors. “You may leave a written appeal to ask for the Baron’s assistance. If he deems you worthy, you may receive a summons to discuss it further.”

“I’m not leaving a damn _letter_. If the baron wants to deny me he can do it in person.” Catherine gripped the reins tightly. “The deal I have in mind would help us both. He’ll want to speak to me. If you could just–”

“Whatever your business, it’ll need to wait until after the Baron has concluded his own.” The guard’s eyes fell away from her. He swept his arm in a dismissive wave. “Should you keep insisting otherwise, I'll be forced to escort you from the premises. And don't think of drawing your steel. There are more eyes on you than you think."

She glanced at the surrounding area. Shadows draped the alcoves in a thick shawl. It would not be a stretch to envision hidden eyes resting upon her person. Considering the perpetual attacks they faced, the barony was likely wary of further trouble. Catherine was tempted to run the man down and force her way inside. She had faced greater foes than a mere door-man. Yet she knew her temper would earn a fast imprisonment. Neither pride nor force was needed here.

“Does the baron claim fealty to the Kingdom?” Catherine asked, thinking quickly. The guard stared at her, attention caught once again. She spoke fast, not allowing him to respond. “Has the King’s corpse cooled long enough for you to cast aside sworn loyalty?”

“Never.” The guard scowled deeply. He appeared affronted by the accusation. “Itha has always been faithful to the Crown. We felt His Majesty’s death keenly. We _still_ mourn him.”

“Then what of those who served at his side?” Catherine’s voice hardened. “I was there on the Tailtean. I fought beneath his banner and met the imperial vanguard. I nearly lost my life trying to stop the Emperor from killing my liege. Does the blood I spilled for the Kingdom mean nothing?”

The man considered her for a moment. His brow creased with thought.

“You say you fought beside the King. Can you prove this?”

The former Knight stilled. It was one thing to speak of her greatest shame, but it was another to bear it. The events of Fhirdiad had left their stain in her flesh. Burdensome evidence yet not one she wore proudly. Catherine swallowed hard before jerking her pant leg up. The guard peered at her twisting scars in mute shock.

“I took this wound when I faced General Eisner.” She held his gaze. “You know there’s only one weapon that could leave a scar like this.”

“Tale of her fabled relic has reached far. If what you say is true...” The guard’s sentence drifted on the wind. Pity flickered across his expression. Catherine worked her jaw but said nothing. “Very well. I’ll tell the Baron you seek an audience. I cannot guarantee he’ll see you, but I’ll make sure your service is taken into consideration.”

“That’s all I ask. Thank you.” She settled, grip loosening from the saddle horn. Saloma, ornery beast, snorted before stomping the dirt. It wouldn’t have been a surprise if the horse was amused by her distress.

“Wait here. I’ll not go looking if I can’t find you,” the man warned, strident and firm. Then he headed towards the main house. Catherine dismounted, eyeing the entrance with mounting expectation. To her surprise, the guard returned swiftly. She prepared herself for a sound rejection, only to relax and the man waved her forward.

“Baron Friuch is interested in what you have to say. Follow me, quickly now.”

* * *

Upon their meeting, any preconceived notions Catherine might have had of the baron were immediately tossed aside. She had vaguely imagined a man of diminutive stature; perhaps ever smiling and cajoling. It was the way of most merchants, let alone one with a modest title. Instead, the figure that graced her could only be described as large. Friuch was barrel-chested with a neck like an oak. He dressed finely — the only expectation proved true — and the luxurious arch of his goatee suggested careful grooming. A shrewd stare dissected her in return as she entered the study.

Catherine knew what assessments he would make. Hair blown into matted clumps. Clothing second-hand and stained with sweat. She held her head high despite this. While it was true she needed him, the same could be said of the baron. Prior military service or no, he would not have summoned for her if he wasn’t intrigued. The former Knight stood at the end of his desk, waiting for him to address her. Eventually, he did, though his words were markedly slow.

“I’m told you fought on the Tailtean,” Friuch began. His pale eyes were heavy, oppressive in their measuring weight. "A terrible day for all of Faerghus. Few survived, as I understand it; even fewer who have faced General Eisner. I’m amazed you escaped without much fuss.”

“I believe she thought I was already dead. No use taking the head of a dead woman.” Catherine lifted her shoulders blithely. “My partner spirited me from the field and into Conand. I only heard about the death of my liege when I finally woke.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best. I hear the Emperor had him captured before executing him. That’s no way for a King to die.” For all the reverence his words implied, there was none of it in his tone. The baron tapped his fingers and Catherine noted the quality leather of his gloves. “Nonetheless, the war is over. His Majesty would not wish to see the sorry state his country has fallen into. If the Goddess is merciful, she would shield this pathetic sight from view.”

Catherine refrained from adding a rejoinder. Dimitri had not been grossly concerned with the Kingdom’s affairs by the end. Only killing Edelgard had mattered. He had shown glimmers of monarchical concern in his more lucid moments, but they inevitably vanished beneath wroth. Lady Rhea's fervency only inflamed that ire. A confused tangle of loss and regret lanced through her, but Catherine quashed it. The baron continued after seeing her silence on the subject.

“Still, I admire those who have the tenacity to survive. Warfare is not my trade, but I can respect its hardship.” He favored her with a curious look. “To whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Cass—" Catherine halted while giving her fabricated name. Abruptly, the lie she had accepted for months sat bitterly in her mouth. Was ‘Cassia’ really who she was? Or was this name just another mask for her to hide behind? She found herself reaching for the truth and it rolled off her tongue like a well-loved poem. “Cassandra of Culann.”

“Culann…” The baron frowned, dark whiskers drooping with his lips. “I’m not familiar with that name. What side of the plains does it rest?”

“It’s not in Itha. The village lies in Gautier, just before the mountains. It’s small, but filled with honest and good people.” Catherine blinked, surprised at the pride filling her voice. She forced her expression not to betray this lapse. “Truthfully, it’s for that village that I come before you.”

“Gautier?” The baron narrowed his eyes. Displeasure replaced his earlier respect. “Then I don’t understand why you’ve come to me. I only tend to my territory. You should seek aid from the Margrave, or that rakish lout he calls a son.”

“I’m not trying to ask for relief nor am I begging for coin. Rather, I want to strike a deal.” Catherine leaned an arm against the desk. “Rumors abound about your recent troubles with brigands. People say you’ve been able to fend them off, but the destruction they leave is undeniable.”

“They’re a nuisance, but I can handle them by myself. I hardly need a lamed soldier to take up the sword in my name.”

“You mistake my intentions. I’m not offering to rid you of them.” She looked at him evenly. “As I rode through the barony, I was struck by the poor condition of your land. By my measure, you need a smith’s hammer over a swordsman.”

“I cannot deny the _unfortunate_ turn my holding has taken,” Friuch admitted. He made a faint noise beneath his breath, a guttural snort more fitting for a bull than a man. “Bandits are one thing, but a drought in skilled craftsman has left me bereft. The scant smiths I had in my employ joined the army under the Duke’s orders. Whether dead or simply deserted, none have returned. Before this mess, I could outsource my needs to Fhirdiad. Yet it’s now in ruins. A city of ash cannot provide what I need.”

Irritation passed over his face.

“Normally, I would have sought council from the Grand Duke. But the man will see no one. His silence leaves me with few places to turn.”

“Then I’m right.” Catherine smiled thinly. “You need someone who can work a forge — who can hammer out nail, hinge, and gate to keep the barony together.”

“I don’t see how that concerns you.” He pursed his lips, patience dissipating. “Unless you’re offering the services of one?”

“Two reside in Culann.” It was an exaggeration to declare as such, but Catherine needed to catch his attention. From the burgeoning interest in the baron’s eyes, she had succeeded. Friuch clasped his hands atop the desk.

“Is that so? And I assume their rates will be costly.” The man moved over her in an assessing sweep. “How much gold will satisfy these smiths of yours?”

“Hang your coin.” Catherine scoffed and straightened. “All I’m asking for is supplies. Food that will keep for the winter, wool for clothing, oil for lanterns. You send these to Culann on a caravan with crates of iron. Then we return you a wagon full of parts to maintain the barony."

“You want me to waste my food stores on a village outside of my territory, all for materials that _I’ll_ need to provide metal for?” Friuch fingered the end of his goatee. Amusement carved grooves upon his wide features. “You’re bold to ask so much of me. It seems you have more to gain from this than I do.”

“Our need is greater. I can’t deny that. But I was told you made your wealth in tilling. Isn’t that how you rose to your station?”

“You heard right. Hungry armies do need to be fed, after all.” He took a moment to tap the armrest of his chair. “I suppose my options are limited. I could scour the land for another smith, but I need my men focused on protecting the barony. Can you guarantee a steady flow of parts?”

“I do, if you can guarantee the same.” Catherine mustered a smile, excitement igniting. All was falling into place as planned. Yet a cold wave of doubt persisted. She drew back and gave the baron a wary look. “You’re accepting this deal rather easily. From the attitude of your guard, I half expected you to deny me on principle.”

“I can respect enterprising people.” The man shrugged his lumbering shoulders. His lips pulled at her skeptical frown. “Mayhaps, I also find amusement in solving something House Gautier failed to.”

“You take comfort in their negligence?”

“That would be ungracious of me.” The baron’s face stretched, but Catherine struggled to define the gesture as a smile. “Consider me in good humor and think not on the particulars. As you said, we both stand to gain something.”

“That sounds as if you’re levying for something more than mere metal.”

“I’m an ambitious fellow,” He admitted plainly. “I must be, to get as far as I have. But for all my aspirations, my blood runs as common as any other. So yes, I am quite tickled by the prospect of the Margravate, in some small way, being saved by me.”

Catherine smothered her reflexive scowl. The baron’s reasons were unscrupulous but not unfair. For all the baron’s self-made qualities, it was obvious he held the nobility with reverence just as much as contempt. She tried to keep her expression free of these thoughts but suspected the tense set of her jaw betrayed her. Shamir was better at playing a part. However, there were other skills the former Knight could claim to. Negotiation with pompous fops was one of them.

“Alright.” She folded her arms. “Shall we settle on a caravan per week?”

“For the iron, yes. However, I can only provide a monthly stipend of food and supplies.”

“Bi-weekly. A month would stretch us too thin. If you want your metal forged, you can give us that much.”

The baron’s chest rumbled with an incredulous chuckle.

“Stringent as well as bold. Fine, I’ll allow this. Should you fail to keep up with my demands, I'll not hesitate to cut you loose."

“The work will get done. I promise you.” Catherine relaxed on her heels. Triumph flooded through her, an invigorating rush. Against the odds, she had succeeded. Culann would survive the harsh winter months. An image formed of a prospective future, one made of children’s laughter and an elderly woman’s calm voice — most of all, the warmth of a hearth and the easy familiarity of a home. Finally, she envisioned herself bundled in blankets with Shamir at her side. It was a heady thought and sparked painful longing. Catherine headed for the door, eager to return with her spoils. She paused as the baron called out once more.

“A word of caution, Cassandra of Culann. I didn’t ‘rise’ to anything. I _climbed_. I started as a pig farmer, and now I rub elbows with lords who once spat on me. All because I knew where to invest my efforts.” His eyes settled on her. There was something flat and unpleasant behind his stare. “Do not make me regret investing in you.”

Catherine allowed the warning. She knew better than to rankle the ego of influential men. So the former Knight nodded and departed swiftly. Perhaps it was a gamble to broker a deal with him. Yet, just like him, her options were few. Whatever the consequences may be, they were reserved for the future. At present, she allowed herself to bask in this simple victory.

Suddenly, her past failures were naught but fragile memories; easily buried by the elated thunder of her heart.

* * *

_“Hold, Cassandra!”_

_The noblewoman blinked, pausing amid a feint. She huffed and withdrew her sword._

_“Honestly, Christophe. This is the second time you’ve interrupted me during a spar. I suspect you’re doing this on purpose.” She slung her practice blade across her shoulder. “That afraid of losing to me?”_

_“I’m not foolish enough to expect a win.” The young man chuckled gamely. “And if my interruptions result in a slip on your part, all the better.”_

_“You’re a cheat.”_

_“A charming one?”_

_“A regular one.” She rolled her eyes and leaned against a nearby oak. It was one she was beginning to think of as theirs with how often they frequented this spot. If her friend knew, he would accuse her of being sentimental; yet another failing he could tease her for. He was lucky she was fond of him. “Back on topic, why did you stop? You don’t look winded by any means. Unless there’s some pressing test on the horizon. In that case, I blame our lack of studying on your capricious whims.”_

_“Don’t fret, dear Cassandra. My interruption has nothing to do with dreary academia.” Christophe tossed his sword to the grass. Then he sat against the oak, his eyes turned to the sky. “My heart just isn’t in sparring today. My head is abuzz with airy thoughts. You know how I am.”_

_“So it's just you being indolent," Cassandra grunted, unimpressed. "We need to be sharp for the next mission. You know the professor's orders."_

_“Yes, yes. How could I forget?” Her friend ran a hand through his fair hair. The sun shone across the crown of his head. “Still, won’t you humor me? It would only be for a moment. Then we can return to bashing each other to pieces.”_

_“I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe I’ll just settle for cleaving you in two.”_

_“Cassandra the Merciful!” Christophe clapped his hands theatrically. “Shall that be your epithet from now on? I can shout it like a crier whenever we enter a room. That sounds like great fun, actually. I think I’ll try that when we leave for dinner.”_

_“Don’t you dare,” she warned him darkly. Cassandra crossed her arms and leaned against the tree trunk. “If you do, I’ll be forced to come up with something in return. I assure you it will be far less gracious.”_

_“Now you have me curious as to what you would come up with.” Christophe ducked as she swatted the air near his head. “Alright! I’ll cease baiting you. My... So violent today.”_

_“You’re an idiot.” Cassandra scratched at her hair. The locks were choppy, longer than she was accustomed to keeping it. She would need a cut before the month ended, lest she look as disheveled as the young man next to her. “What’s on your mind anyway? You don’t usually let things trouble you.”_

_“It was nothing serious. I was just considering our last discussion. The one we had after sparring.”_

_“What?” She hesitated, searching her memories. Then the conversation from the previous day came to her. “You mean the one about the future?”_

_“The same.” Christophe nodded. “I must say, I was shocked by the answer you gave. I never thought menial labor would be in your interests.”_

_“I wouldn't consider craft-work menial. It's important. Even if unseen, it keeps the Kingdom running." Cassandra shrugged her shoulders, a bit embarrassed. "Besides, you asked and I answered. That can't be enough to upset you."_

_“I’m hardly angered, only pleasantly surprised. You’ve always seemed eager to serve as a Lord. It’s odd to picture you without a sword in hand.”_

_“Well, it's not about fighting. Not really." She rubbed her nose thoughtfully. "It's more what we would be fighting for. The King. Our country. The people in our land. Do I love fighting? I do, but I love the idea of helping people more."_

_She quieted as she felt her friend’s stare upon her. A careless laugh bubbled from her throat._

_“I suppose that sounds ridiculous.”_

_“No. It sounds admirable.” Christophe’s face bore no hint of mockery. He smiled up at her. “Is that why you would choose to be a craftsman?”_

_“I’m just being pragmatic when I say that. A swordsman needs to be good with their hands. Yet...” She shied away from his earnest gaze. “That would be part of it. Hell, my family is wealthy enough. Maybe I wouldn’t even charge a copper.”_

_“You would be lovely. I do not doubt that." There was a wistful quality to his tone then. "At the heart of us, I don't think we're very different."_

_“You and I?”_

_“Of course. I want the same as you, after all.” Christophe took an acorn in hand and tossed it afar. It bounced, disappearing from view. Where it would go, no one could say. “Is there a purer intent than wanting to help? When you have the tools available to you, it would be negligent not to try.”_

_Cassandra said nothing to that. She blinked as the mountain wind whipped past her face. Christophe’s words moved something within her. Nameless and formless, but it existed all the same. It was a change she didn’t have the words to describe. Only many years later, when the world had worn the girl to a woman of many names, would she truly understand._

* * *

Catherine did not have to wait long for the baron to prove himself true to his word. Within a matter of hours, her borrowed wagon was loaded high with crates of raw iron and various goods. She watched the proceedings with nervous strain. The sun was low on the horizon, much to her dismay. With bandits still presumed to be in the area, it wasn’t wise to take the roads at night. She would need to wait until the morning before traveling. Thankfully, the returning journey to Culann would be relatively quick. Baron Friuch had generously offered a handful of soldiers to escort her, but she declined the offer.

The last thing Catherine needed was for the Empire to get wind of her location. A fully armed contingent would only draw unnecessary attention. Careful to maintain her low profile, she bunked down in the baron's stable. The man likely thought her odd, or at the very least cheap, but he allowed it all the same. While the baron seemed to be a pragmatic and avaricious sort, he wasn't disposed towards cruelty.

If anything, the man was amused by her antics. Better condescension than hostility, in any case. However, she did wonder how he would have reacted to her true identity. He probably wouldn’t have believed that the windswept vagrant camping in his stable was a Knight of Seiros. _Former Knight. Never forget that. _As the day concluded, Saloma’s weight solid against her flank, Catherine drifted to sleep with that lingering thought. Yet it was not filled with ruefulness. It was a statement of fact.

Slumber was not peaceful as it would have been beside Shamir, but her dreams remained bland things that neither galled nor upset. When she awoke, it was not to the stench of ash or a flash of steel; just to the smell of hay and the muffled burr of a horse breathing into her hair. The simple pleasure of an uneventful night.

At the first blush of dawn, Catherine hitched Saloma to the wagon. The horse had been surprisingly amenable, no hint of her usual surly attitude. She patted her neck in tentative fondness, sparing a moment to offer a carrot. The mare's ears pricked forward as she mouthed the gift eagerly.

“Maybe you’re not so bad.” Catherine cringed as her hand retreated, palm slimy with saliva and other unmentionables. She wiped her fingers across a dark mane. “Hmph. I’ll consider this your way of saying thanks.”

The horse snorted once. Then she swiveled her head to the right, attention snared by something. Catherine followed the animal’s line of sight. To her surprise, the baron was conversing with someone near the garden path. His expression was markedly polite, if tinged with faint annoyance. She could not discern the other person’s features. However, she did note the shine of silver plate. A soldier of his, perchance, or one of the town guardsman?

The former Knight eyed them speculatively as the baron’s features wrinkled with displeasure. A few more words were exchanged before the man nodded stiffly. Then, he retreated into his home. The figure watched him for a moment, hand lingering atop their sword. Catherine was curious what they could have said to agitate the baron, but decided it wasn’t worth pondering. She had more pressing concerns than a spat between master and subordinate. Of course, as these things go, happenstance forced their paths to cross.

As Catherine bent to secure the rear caravan door, her knee jostled the wheel. It tipped forward slightly and an apple fell from its sack. Out it tumbled, past her foot and across the dirt. A boot stopped its short journey. The person from before knelt and plucked the apple into a gleaming gauntlet. Catherine mustered a grateful smile but faltered as they straightened.

It was a woman, shorter than her by a good head, but the golden shine of her hair gave pause. Her green stare was direct, crisp in a way most strangers wouldn’t dare. _Ingrid Galatea._ Catherine took a shuddering breath, pressing against the wagon. _How? Why? Coincidence or…_ She blinked, just shy of flinching as the woman came closer.

“Your apple.” Armored fingers twisted and the fruit’s skin reflected the morning sun. The former Knight frowned at the voice. It sounded off; more accented than she remembered. Catherine peered at the woman’s face and found that she was not looking at Ingrid after all. Her features, while analogous, were sharper in profile than the noble. The hair was also wrong, longer and tied simply. In the end, the similarities were superficial at best. Relieved, Catherine accepted the apple.

“My thanks.” Her smile was wan, tremulous from the brief scare. She prayed the other woman overlooked the cold sweat pearling her brow. “I’m a bit clumsy at times. I suppose I’m lucky it didn’t roll into a pile of manure.”

“Quite.” The soldier glanced behind her with vague interest. Her arm fell beneath the folds of her cloak. It was finer than a normal guardsman could manage. “Are you a merchant? Hoping to curry the favor of the baron, I wager?”

“No, nothing like that. My business with him is already done.” Catherine breathed slowly, pulse calming to a more even cadence. The woman’s head cocked.

“You spoke with him?”

“Very shortly. It was more like he humored me for a time.” The former Knight rubbed her neck, conscious of the sword she had stowed in the wagon bed. It was off-putting to stand in front of an armed individual without a blade. The soldier didn’t seem wise to her unease, but it was hard to discern the knife-like focus she adopted.

“I’m surprised he deigned to talk to you. He doesn’t usually consort with people he cannot gain from.” Her gaze roved to the house. “Opportunists like him rarely do.”

“I’m not familiar enough with his character to judge, but we came to a mutually beneficial understanding.”

“Did you? How nice.” The woman adjusted the buckles of her gauntlets. It appeared to be an idle motion, yet it still sent a prickle of alarm across Catherine’s nape. After a slight pause, the soldier turned her attention to Saloma. She skirted the animal. It was hard to parse whether her gaze was appreciative or scrutinizing. “That’s a fine mount. Bred large and hardy, too. You don’t see that often on the road. Is it yours?”

“I’m only borrowing her,” Catherine replied. She didn’t know why the woman was showing such interest. It made her skittish.

“So you wouldn’t know where I could find another destrier like this?” The soldier faced the taller woman. Neutral green took her measure. “Not even the name of the stable?”

A cold chill, disparate from the winter wind, lashed across Catherine’s cheeks. She pressed her teeth together, controlling the urge to gnash them.

“I can’t say I know what you mean. Is that a fancy name for a horse?” Catherine tossed the apple into the wagon before climbing aboard. She avoided looking at the woman. “I should be on my way. With bandits afoot, I’d rather depart Itha before the sun gets higher.”

“That’s understandable. My apologies for delaying you.” The soldier bowed before taking a step back. “Safe travels to… Forgive me, but I don’t think I caught where you were headed.”

“I never volunteered it.” Catherine took the reins in hand. Her grip was tight, knuckles popping from the stress. “Farewell.”

With a snap of her wrists, the wagon lurched along the path. She made a pointed effort to stare forward at the road. While she could not see the woman behind her, she felt the edge of those incisive eyes upon her back. It was tempting to dismiss her questions as a healthy curiosity. Perhaps the woman was simply admiring a well-bred horse as she said. It wouldn’t be the first time Catherine’s nerves led her to the wrong conclusion.

Yet the encounter proved unsettling. As a result, she deliberately weaved around the edge of Gautier. Her eyes remained on the rear, watching for any signs of pursuit. Nothing could be glimpsed through the trees. Only when she was certain the woman had not followed did she make for the mountains. Still, she couldn't refrain from tensing at each rustle of leaves. Her hand twitched, always just shy of reaching for the blade at her side.

* * *

Travelers did not brave the northern roads without purpose, nor did they stop near the village of Culann for frivolous ends. It was why the news of two strangers taking refuge in the church spurred many a rumor. It was also the reason for gawping eyes to settle on the wagon bed as Catherine rode into the village center. The first snow had mostly melted away, but the journey had still left her chafed by wind and road. She winced as she clambered down, barely conscious of the surrounding crowd.

It was a modest gathering. Most of them Catherine didn’t recognize, since she had little cause to visit the town proper. She offered them a genial smile but faltered as their stares turned leery. An older gentleman hobbled up to the wagon on a cane. His expression was dour as he stared at the crates.

“Pickled eggs. Oats. Dried meats...” The man licked his lips and his face twisted with something peculiar. Frustration? Catherine couldn’t be sure. “And is this wool? Such a large haul…”

He looked at her. The crowd at his back grew ever larger.

“How much are you selling this for? We have little coin and even less to trade.” The man continued. Suspicion colored every word and Catherine recoiled.

“I’m not selling anything. All of this is supplies for the village. For you.” The former Knight cast her eyes across the gathering. “_All _of you.”

“At no cost?” The elderly man shook his head. He retreated from the wagon with a scowl. “This is a trick. You can’t expect us to take generosity from an unknown without question.”

“I’m not unknown to you. I’ve been staying in the church for months, and working in the forge nearly as long.” Catherine looked around, trying to convey her sincerity to the crowd. “Surely some of you can recognize me. If not, you need only ask your smith for confirmation.”

“The girl speaks true.”

She blinked, stunned as the man in question forged his way through the mass of people. He sniffed imperiously as he stood next to her, a sack slung over his shoulder. She didn’t know what he was doing in the village center, but she wouldn’t spurn his help.

“She's a good-natured lass. A tad slow, but well-meaning. If she says the supplies come without cost, I'm willing to believe her." Weyland scratched his chin, dark eyes cold. The skeptical man frowned but gave no further protest. Catherine relaxed, glad for Weyland's brusque presence. A brief grumbling came from the rest of the villagers until an older woman stepped forward.

“Your work is appreciated, the both of you, yet..." She locked her lips anxiously, eyeing the wagon. "I find it hard to think all of this was given freely. Surely some bargain was made? Perhaps you sought employment from the Margrave?"

“You’re right. This doesn’t come without stipulations, but not on your part.” Catherine straightened her posture, shoulders drawing up with authority. “With the rest of Gautier similarly struggling, I needed to seek help beyond the border. Baron Friuch of Itha needed metalwork, and we needed provisions. It’s an even trade.”

“One made with unscrupulous rakes," another man chimed in sourly. "Who is to say this baron will not seek payment for his _kindness_?”

“I spoke with him and do not believe him the sort of person to renege. So long as I keep up my end of the deal.”

“That sounds like naivety to me.”

“Hold your tongue, churl. I don’t see you offering any solutions.” Weyland glowered. The other man held his tongue after that. The smith’s eyes moved over the hesitant villagers. “Culann has been on the decline for a long while. This winter will likely do us in if we ignore this gift. I earnestly believe my apprentice can be trusted.”

“What if this baron does come for compensation?” The woman from before nervously asked.

“Whatever agreement was reached, it doesn’t concern you. Just be silent and bask in your good fortune.”

“And why should we trust your word, Weyland? You never showed interest in the rest of the village." A nervous fellow chimed in, his suspicion just as pronounced as the man from earlier. "Maybe some respect your deeds, but I would rather hear from someone who doesn't prefer squirrels for company."

An angry flush raced up Weyland’s neck.

“Are you questioning my sanity?”

“I’m questioning your judgment.”

“Settle down, both of you!” Catherine snapped, frustrated. She sighed, dismayed by their inherent distrust of her. Truthfully, she should have expected something like this. She knew the villagers were still watchful of Bothild, even with the woman tending their wounds for years. Perhaps it was silly to think they would accept this gift without question.

To her surprise, the two men had ceased their pointless arguing; though, in Weyland's case, it was obviously begrudging. Just as Catherine was pondering a way to convince everyone, someone stepped forward. She didn't recognize him, but the lack of an arm nagged at her memory. Hadn't Shamir spoke of a hunter she helped? The man looked at her for a time before addressing the crowd.

“I think we can trust her word. The other woman, Lady Shay, has proved herself capable and honest. A person like that wouldn’t travel with someone dissimilar.”

The villagers appeared to settle at his support. Many nodded thoughtfully and darted quick looks at the wagon bed. After a moment, the previous naysayers seemed to consider the logic sound as well. Catherine smiled, both relieved and immensely proud of Shamir. She wondered what her partner would say once she discovered it was the Dagdan that changed their minds. Knowing the other woman, she would deny it fiercely. Catherine felt a nudge to her side, drawing her from thought.

“Come, let these fools puzzle over dividing it. That can be their headache to sort,” Weyland groused, voice low. He led her a few yards away, stopping just shy of the forest. Catherine kept an eye on the wagon, observing as the people milled about the crates.

“You sure they’ll be fair?” She asked the man.

“Aye. I suspect the majority will go into the market stores and put for trade when needed. The lot of them are decent folk. They’re just a bit resistant to the idea of owing anyone they don’t know. Most of the north is like that. We take pride in self-sufficiency.” Weyland paused to spit into the dirt. “Fat lot it’s done for us. We could use an open hand, so long as it comes with few strings.”

The smith looked at Catherine askance.

“You did speak true, didn’t you? I didn’t just make myself look like an idiot protecting you?”

“I didn’t lie to them. They don’t need to fear the baron’s wrath.” The former Knight grinned at him sheepishly. “But I may have volunteered us for a busy winter.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“Friuch's territory has been suffering bandit raids. He needs a steady supply of forged iron to maintain the barony." Catherine cleared her throat. "I might have offered our services. In return, we get two caravans of supplies each month."

Weyland was silent, bushy brows arching high on his face. His lips twisted in an unknown emotion. Then he heaved a great sigh and rubbed his mustache.

“You’re a nuisance, girl. Have I ever told you that? A damn nuisance.” The smith snorted, but it sounded more bemused than disgusted. “Well, I like living more than I do dying of starvation. I guess we’ll see if this noble keeps his word.”

“Friuch isn’t generational nobility. That’s why I think he’ll be more considerate than a lord.” Catherine rethought her statement. “At least, one would hope.”

Weyland laughed, a great, hacking rasp that shook the air. He clapped her shoulder companionably.

“You’re a dozy one, Cassia. Sure as anything. Yet I’ll say this, you did good.” The man strode off, sack swinging from an arm. She watched him head through the trees, barely impeded by the snow. Before his form became too distant she called to him.

“Cassandra.”

Weyland stilled. He faced her and Catherine offered a grin.

“You can call me Cassandra. That’s my true name.”

If he was confused by the deception, the smith gave no sign. With a barely seen tilt of his lips, Weyland turned his back to her. Then he waved and the motion reminded her of someone she missed dearly. When she reached for that old pain, she did not find a raw wound. It was healing now, not quite a scar, but it would become one with time. It was strange how fast you could heal when the rot was stripped away.

* * *

Catherine could not say what she expected upon her return. However, the enthusiastic embrace of both Connla and Aife was a pleasant surprise. She was heartened by their affection, and the fondness she felt in return exceeded that of a once reluctant sitter. It occurred to her, belated and perhaps inevitable, that she adored them. It was not a new feeling. But, as with every other new emotion that evaded her, it was initially unrecognizable. Catherine ruffled their hair before bringing her eyes up to Bothild’s.

The nun was ever serene, but the warmth in her face was pronounced. She tugged the former Knight deeper into the chapel, tossing aside her damp coat like a fussy mother. Privately, Catherine was grateful for the fuss. She barely remembered her mother, and her father’s wife was not prone to such trifles. Everything from Bothild’s concern, Connla’s happy chatter, and Aife’s quick steps spoke of a place she was beginning to call home. And, if she could convince a certain someone, perhaps it would be for all time. Catherine scanned the chapel, searching for the object of her musings.

Then she found her. Shamir sat by the fire, staring pensively into the flames. It was hard to say what thoughts held her captive. Her partner was deeply introspective and rarely conveyed her emotions. However, as the Dagdan woman’s eyes lifted her expression changed significantly. The bend in her brow smoothed and something that she dared to call relief worked along pale features. Shamir rose to meet her.

“Cassia.” Violet eyes drank her in. After a long inspection, the Dagdan woman seemed to find whatever she was looking for. She did not smile, but the softening of her stare spoke more than any gesture. “Welcome back.”

Catherine moved close. Conscious of the eyes upon them, she did not seize her partner into the kiss she yearned for. Yet she could not keep herself from cupping Shamir's face. Their temples came together in a hovering touch.

“I’m back. Did you miss me?”

“It’s possible.” The comment was evasive, but the tone was fond. Shamir leaned into her touch and Catherine took it as confirmation. No matter how indirect the Dagdan woman could be, she always understood the truth hidden within her words. “Did you succeed?”

“I did.”

Shamir pulled away, and the former Knight wasn’t whether to be offended or amused by her partner’s incredulous stare. In the end, Catherine laughed and led Shamir to the others.

“I can tell you the whole story, if you like? It wasn’t quite an epic, but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

For the rest of the afternoon, she recounted the events with much gusto. If things were a bit exaggerated for effect, could she really be blamed? It was only natural when faced with the doe-eyed fascination of children. Connla was rapt, hanging on each word. Aife less so, but she was more invested than the last story she told. As for Bothild, the nun appeared content observing her ward's reactions. However, she did offer a broad smile when Catherine explained how she convinced the baron.

“Some people were made to bear authority,” the older woman commented. “It’s a quality you have or you don’t. The baron saw it on you too, I wager.”

“I don’t think that’s the case here.” Catherine chuckled. “The impression I got was far less charitable. If anything, I was just a convenient excuse for him to throw his weight around in Gautier.”

“Ah, but you got him and that guard to listen.” Bothild gave her a satisfied glance. “That’s more than most could claim, from the sound of it.”

Catherine couldn’t argue with that logic. Next to her, Shamir shifted with something that might have been repressed amusement. She shot the woman a look, but her partner was unaffected. A dark brow lifted and a violet stare challenged her silently. Catherine sighed, conceding the point.

“I suppose that could have been the case. Either way, we’ll have plenty for the next few weeks and more coming in the winter months. Weyland and I will be stacked with work, but I’m up for the challenge.”

“And then all was well in Culann.” The nun relaxed into her chair. The lines in her face appeared to smooth. For a moment, she looked youthful despite her advanced years. “I have no doubt that you’ll keep to your word. From what I’ve seen, it’s a sound investment placing faith in you.”

She was silent for a time. Then her features pulled with something indefinable.

“Perhaps an investiture as well.”

“Sorry?" Catherine frowned. Bothild just smiled once more but did not answer. She rotated her hand idly, flexing her bony fingers. Puzzled, the former Knight looked to her partner for answers. To her surprise, Shamir seemed just as confused. Her gaze was thin as she stared at the other woman. Connla broke the tension by tugging on Catherine's pant leg.

“You said the baron was really tall, right? Do you think he was part giant?” The boy chirped at her enthusiastically. “Oh! What if he’s just pretending to be a baron? Giants are supposed to be tricky. Well, that’s what Bothild told us.”

“I don’t know about a giant, but he was a big fellow. Even when sitting, he nearly met my height.”

“Really?” His hazel eyes stretched wide. “He must have been huge then! Definitely a giant. You’re lucky he was nice.”

“Ha! You don’t believe I could take him?” Catherine grinned.

“Well… You're pretty tough. But giants are supposed to be the toughest."

“I’ve faced down worse. Remind me to tell you the tale of when I fought an army of mages in a dense fog. Couldn’t see a thing, and I still came out the victor.”

“You were hardly alone," Shamir interjected, off-hand.

“Sure, but I know for a fact I cut down the majority of them.” Catherine’s face fell. The memory of what came next struck her numb. “On second thought, I don’t think that story is suitable for young listeners. But I’ll come up with something grand to tell you kids. I have a lifetime of stories I could share.”

“I think they would enjoy that, Cassia,” Bothild said. Connla bobbed his head furiously. His sister’s response was less obvious, but she timidly followed suit.

“Then I’ll make sure not to disappoint.” Catherine hesitated. Her tone sobered as she gathered herself. “Speaking of, that name isn’t my real one. It was a lie we made for… reasons concerning the Empire. My birth name is Cassandra, and you can use it if you wish.”

“Oh?” Strangely, Bothild did not seem surprised by the revelation. The older woman bowed her head before meeting Catherine’s anxious stare. “Very well, Cassandra it is. I don’t think we’ll have trouble remembering that. What say you two?”

“It’s a pretty name,” Aife piped up. Connla looked more confused than anything, likely befuddled over the deception.

“But why would you need to lie? I don’t get it.”

“Everyone has their reasons for doing things, Connla. I’m sure she had a very good one for keeping her name a secret.” The nun looked at Catherine steadily. “Sometimes, a small lie can mean the difference between life and death. Life isn’t always fair to the honest.”

“I guess so.” The boy wasn’t entirely appeased, but he let the matter drop. Suddenly, Bothild burst into her own story; this one more fantastic and fabricated. Catherine exhaled slowly, glad his attention directed elsewhere. She did not want to explain her past and all its terrible secrets. The boy might have revered Thunder Catherine, but the truth of the Knight was more ugly than noble.

Most of all, she wanted to leave those sordid deeds behind her. They happened, of course. She would not fall into the same habits she had by denying reality. However, this night was one for celebration, not for mulling over things she could not change. Catherine felt her partner reach for her knee, and the touch calmed her tumult.

Hours on, when the fire had been extinguished and the children put to sleep, she found herself in bed with Shamir. The Dagdan woman had dragged her into the sheets, not for pleasure but comfort. She breathed evenly into Catherine's neck, head atop her shoulder. The taller woman held her firmly, tracing the arch of her back.

“I missed you,” her partner admitted softly. Catherine’s body shook with a quiet laugh.

“That’s good to know. I did wonder.” She pressed a kiss to the side of Shamir’s head. The Dagdan woman sighed into her collar.

“You should have taken me with you. What if you ran into trouble on the road? I don't know why you insisted I stay."

“I think I can handle a few bandits. I may not be in my prime, but I can still fight if needed. Besides, Bothild would have missed you too much.” Catherine felt more than heard Shamir’s irritated scoff. “However, I will admit my reasons were selfish. It just felt like something I needed to do.”

“Alone?”

She lifted her chest in a rudimentary shrug.

“Do you remember when we spoke of the Church? You said I could find a new purpose for myself. Helping Culann is a part of that, I think.” Catherine pulled back to look into Shamir’s eyes. A question came, melding with a distant memory. “Does that sound ridiculous?”

Instead of her usual flippant reply, Shamir held her gaze evenly. Perhaps the Dagdan woman could read the importance she placed on the inquiry and the fragile hope behind it. Shamir placed her lips to Catherine’s jaw.

“No. It sounds exactly like something you would do.” She played idly with a button on the taller woman’s shirt. Her brow furrowed. “...Before, when you told them to call you Cassandra, it made me wonder. Would you prefer me to call you that?”

“You can call me whatever you want.” Catherine considered this for a time. She reached into the depth of who she was and found not one identity, but three. The young noble she had been. The loyal Knight she became. The battered and reforged woman she was now. They were all the same, but not. Indelibly different, yet steps on a path to a future she could finally choose for herself. “Catherine or Cassandra. They’re both the truth of who I am.”

There was a time for lies. And then there was a time for honesty. Here, with Shamir, there was only room for the latter. So the woman of many names, but one person, kissed her lover and fell into the peace she had earned.

It was a curious feeling, to be whole at last.

**Next Chapter: Normalize**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Do you feel the end coming? I know I do. However, don't let the remaining chapter count fool you. We still have some interesting events coming up that you won't expect. Well, for the most part. I think. If any of you do manage to guess what I have planned then I'll be astonished lol. For this chapter, I wanted to make clear what my thoughts are on the whole Catherine/Cassandra situation. I knew I wanted 'Cassandra' to come back, but I also didn't want to throw away 'Catherine' if that makes sense. After all, Catherine is the person we've come to know and (hopefully) love. If she did say she was only Cassandra, it would come across as negating the things she did as Catherine. That seemed like back peddling to me, so I'm avoiding that. Anyone who guessed the name she would keep is technically correct either way~
> 
> And so, the village is saved! But for how long? And what's going on in the background? All of those answers and more will be made clear very soon. For those who may not have heard, I am planning to finish this story by the end of September. Maybe early October at the latest, if I get distracted by irl or work. After that, I'll be tackling my Doropetra story and a small thing for Edeleth week. If you want to keep tabs on my updates and future fics, feel free to check out my twitter. Thank you so much for the comments and support! I appreciate all of you <3 - Adra Cat


	18. Normalize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sudden crisis leads to overdue realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my fantastic beta, johnxfire <3
> 
> *[A Notice: The following chapter contains graphic imagery pertaining to childbirth as well as allusions to the dangers surrounding it.  
Please read at your own discretion!]

In the days following Catherine's return, there was a palpable energy in the air. The village, no longer on the brink of collapse, became aflutter with life. Even in the cold, people moved with purpose; their steps lighter than they had been in months. Faces, once resigned and heavy, were now quick to a smile. The reason for this was plain. The war was over, but nature was an enemy none could combat with ease. Now, with the Baron's aid, Culann's struggle was significantly lessened. As Shamir went about her business, she found herself beset with grateful stares.

They seemed to think Catherine was spurred into action at her behest. A laughable notion, but she didn’t want to waste the energy in setting them straight. Her partner accepted it in stride, even appearing to take joy in the rumors. She expected nothing less from the other woman. Catherine often found amusement in Shamir’s exasperation and had ever since their days in Garreg Mach. The former Knight had changed in small but fundamental ways, but her core was an unrepentant agitator.

_“Why worry over their opinion? I think it’s nice they think so highly of you,”_ her partner had replied when Shamir expressed her unease. Catherine’s grin was aggravatingly broad. _“Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up being canonized. Saint Shamir, accomplished healer and altruist.”_

The thought was a horror and the Dagdan woman had quickly fled in response. Catherine’s answering laughter was both expected and galling. Yet the point remained, nagging beneath her skin. She was not a healer by any means. At most, she was Bothild’s steady hand and keen eye. Of anyone in Culann, it was the nun they should revere. Yet they treated her with begrudging acceptance. Shamir didn’t know what Bothild herself thought of this, but she imagined the woman was not as resigned as she seemed. If she were in the nun’s place, Shamir would not have hesitated to snub them in return.

Nonetheless, it was not the Dagdan woman’s place to question her host’s peculiarities. Shamir observed the nun from her periphery. At present, Bothild looked perfectly content reading on the chapel porch. It was assuredly Church nonsense or some such; there were very few books in her belongings that weren’t. The morning was chilly, yet the children had expressed a desire to play. So Shamir had ceded despite her natural distaste. Why they found pelting each other with ice so enthralling, she would never understand. Perhaps that too was an aspect of Faerghus blood.

Thankfully, Bothild’s presence stopped the children from pestering her into their game. If Catherine had been here instead, the outcome wouldn’t have been in her favor. Of course, she wasn’t opposed to entertaining the siblings. However, being buried beneath a blanket of snow was not her idea of fun. Shamir blinked, torn from her thoughts as Aife loosened a high-pitched squeal. Connla, taking advantage of his sister’s distraction had dumped a handful of ice down her coat. The boy fled as the girl fumed. Shamir stared at them, uncertain whether to intervene. She heard Bothild click her tongue.

“Connla plays rough, but Aife is not the simpering flower she seems,” the nun commented. She never glanced away from her book. “The girl has some steel to her. I’m sure she’ll take her revenge before the day ends.”

“I wasn’t worried.” Despite the quick response, Shamir reluctantly pulled her gaze away. “Still, he should be conscious of his superior size. She’s slight for her age.”

“True, but the lad is not without brotherly sentiment. He knows to be gentle.” Bothild looked up inquisitively. “Was it not the same with your own family?”

“I was the eldest. While I had brothers, they never dared to trifle with me.”

“Always so stern.” The nun’s words sounded like condemnation, yet her tone was oddly fond. “I can see why you were drawn to someone like Cassandra. She’s everything you never allowed yourself to be.”

“That’s not the heart of it.” Shamir wrinkled her nose, unamused. “If anything, I tolerate her flighty qualities rather than appreciate them.”

“Naturally.” An earthy chuckle erupted from the nun. Her attention returned to the book as she tapped the spine rhythmically. “What is love but adoration for the best and acceptance of the worst? Even then, fondness bleeds into everything they are.”

“You sound as if you have experience with this.” Shamir eyed her for a moment. “I know it’s discouraged, but the Church does allow for marriage. Were you...?”

“Married? No. However, I have loved. It would be odd if I had not.” Bothild’s eyes did not brighten, neither with cherished memory nor melancholy. If the subject stirred her emotions, she gave no sign. A practiced mask for a simple nun. And, as was becoming more frequent of late, the impression that Shamir did not truly know this woman loomed. “I was young once, distant as those days seem. I cannot say it was with as much fervor or excitement as you two. You put me to shame, I’m afraid.”

“You’re deflecting.” Shamir faced her fully. Her stare was hard, unwilling to let the older woman evade. “You do that often. Don’t think I’m unaware of it.”

“Do I?” Bothild’s expression did not change. She closed the book with a snap. “Perhaps I do. Forgive me; some habits are rather hard to break. But I’m not being entirely untruthful. The love I speak of is not worth digging up bones, and I do not wish to waste energy re-burying them. I hope you understand.”

The Dagdan woman inspected her for a time. There was a stubborn edge to the nun’s voice that hadn’t been there before. It was a shocking sharpness, considering her usual serenity. Shamir tilted her head down and cut her eyes to the playing children.

“Your secrets aren’t mine to demand,” she responded at length. “Yet your reticence has me unnerved. I do not trust those who give too freely, just as I do not trust those who give nothing.”

“A wise way to be.” Bothild breathed deeply. Heat escaped her nostrils in a visible cloud. “What’s not wise is reading in the cold. My joints are beginning to ache.”

“You should go in.” Shamir loosened her posture. “I can watch the children. They don’t look ready to retire just yet.”

“That might be for the best. I think I’ll put the kettle on for us.” Bothild hesitated, remaining in her seat. “Before I do, would you mind answering something for me?”

“That depends on the question.”

“It’s nothing serious. I was just reminded of our conversation from last week.” Dark eyes bore upon her with great severity. “The bridge must be mended by now. Passable, at the very least. Despite this, you’ve yet to raise the subject with Cassandra.”

“And?” Shamir worked her jaw. Somehow, the easy use of Catherine’s birth name raised her hackles high. She felt like a cat brushed the wrong way.

“I just find it curious. That’s all.” Bothild offered a smile. The expression was entirely too knowing for the Dagdan woman’s liking. “Does this mean you will stay?”

“My partner made a deal she fully intends to keep. I will not force her to break it.”

“Ah, of course.” The nun’s lips twitched with mirth. “Then we’re grateful for your mercy, Lady Shay. Still, I hope you’ll find it within yourself to enjoy this turn of events. Culann is easy to love. I speak from experience.”

“I do not share your confidence. At most, I see only begrudging resignation in my future.” Shamir sighed and the quick cloud of condensation that followed irritated her further. “Once the spring comes and her bargain is fulfilled, Cassandra–”

She paused, nearly fumbling on the name. It sat awkwardly in her mouth; a truth she had not quite adjusted to yet.

“...I don’t know what she intends. I meant what I said before. I’ll stay if she asks, but I don’t picture myself enjoying it. This place is far removed from my homeland, unbearably so.”

“A fair assessment. But life is ever full of surprises. Tell me, did you envision yourself loving a person like her? Did you know, for certain and true, that this is where your life would lead?”

“That’s a false equivalent,” Shamir replied curtly. She faltered as soon as she finished. It was not a baseless point, just not one she wanted to consider. Bothild’s face creased with blatant satisfaction, reading her uncertainty.

“Is it? I think it works rather well.” Bothild made an amused sound in the back of her throat. Then she rose on creaking knees, barely wincing from the effort. “I’ll go warm up some water for us. I think we could use something hot to drink.”

Shamir watched as she strode to the door, still pondering the woman’s question. She was tempted to refute it properly, if only to lay the matter to rest, but found she could not. The nun was presumptuous. She was also not wrong. This life, this love; none of it was something expected nor ordained by conscious will. And yet she could not regret a single moment, not if it brought Catherine’s path in line with hers. The Dagdan woman shifted focus to the trees as her thoughts roiled.

Unexpectedly, movement caught her eye. A figure poured out from the thicket, too tall to be either child and too short to be her partner. Shamir frowned as they stumbled near. It was a man, bundled up to his neck in cloth. His brown hair was matted with snow, as was the scruff lining his jaw. He waved to her, and the panicked fervor in his eyes placed him immediately. It was the cobbler. Bothild stilled, features sharpening with concern.

“Sister! Lady Shay.” He gasped, nearly collapsing to his knees. “Please, come quick! My wife… I-I think she’s in labor.”

“Calm yourself, good man. Has her water broken?” The nun moved to receive him. She grasped his arms firmly. He held her in return, face red from exertion and alarm both.

“I… I believe so. There was water, but also blood. Is that normal?” His mouth trembled as his voice pitched higher. “We need to get to her. You two are the only ones who can help. Please, I beg of you!”

“We will. I promise.” Bothild patted his shoulder before cutting her stare to Shamir. “Shay, fetch my bag and tools. Bring several towels as well. We’ll need them.”

Shamir straightened, responding to the urgency within her voice. The unexpected had come for them both. Petty concerns could have no purchase here. She swept into the chapel, hands curling into fists. The shape of the day had shifted into something far more dire, and the Dagdan woman could only hope that it didn't degenerate into tragedy.

* * *

Shamir had never understood the waxing romanticism of childbirth. It was an ugly and violent thing, this private war between death and life. She did not find beauty within the blood spilt. No words of poetry came to mind in the wrenching screams of mother and child. She had watched the process many a time. It was painful to witness as it was to assist. In her youth, Shamir had stood vigilant and watched as each of her siblings was torn from her mother's body. Theirs was a poor family, and it needed many hands to maintain.

Every birthing was a horror, comprised of dark hues and a sea of red. Disgust sat deep and never lessened with each repetition. _Who would willingly suffer this_, she had wondered, _all to hold a helpless, squalling mass of flesh?_ Children themselves were not awful creatures, but Shamir had decided early on that childbirth would not be a thing she would weather. Privately, she had been relieved when her desires alighted upon Catherine. Her partner was wonderfully female, but also seemingly beyond the urge to propagate. The former Knight’s interest in such things was nil; though the topic was never raised formally, Shamir assumed her opinion had not changed.

_All the better for it. I have no patience to labor a babe into the world._ She held back from curling her lip as a scream pierced her ears. As the cobbler had warned, Leid was in a pitiful state upon their arrival. Her color was high, face damp from sweat and spittle. She breathed in uneven pants and clutched at the bedding as if it would spare her of pain. Leid did not appear to be fully aware of her surroundings if the wild-eyed looks she tossed were any indication. Quickly, Shamir had rushed to the woman and taken her measure. The labor was not going smooth, and concerns over the woman's slight frame increased the further it progressed.

Bothild seemed to become aware of this as well. She ordered the cobbler to stay out of the room, nearly swatting the man when he tried to press his way inside. _“We do not need your fretting to distract us,” _the nun explained. Her tone brokered no exceptions. “Wait outside and try to steady yourself. We’ll send for you when the child is safe.”

Shamir did not miss the wording Bothild had used. There was a certain resignation within them that the man likely did not hear. He left without complaint, wringing his hands. Momentarily, pity surged through the Dagdan woman. She clutched Leid’s hand, heart falling with the limp squeeze the woman mustered. Her eyes moved up to meet Bothild’s.

“This fever isn’t natural. Do you think the child…?” She trailed, words catching. The nun nodded once.

“It’s possible. Symptoms like these can indicate a stillbirth. However, that isn’t a certainty.” Bothild rolled up her sleeves. “There is hope; we just need to act fast. As she is, Leid cannot push the babe free. We’ll need to pull it from her.”

“Will she survive the strain?” Shamir glanced at the barely conscious woman. Her skin was blanched, thick pearls of sweat staining her skin.

Bothild said nothing in response. She diverted her eyes. Then, the older woman stooped to rifle through her bag. Her silence was enough of an answer. Shamir inhaled deeply, teeth pressed hard together. An odious stench permeated the air, but she forced herself not to name it as death. There was terrible consequence to that thought. She would not give it power by assuming anything. Shamir dropped the woman’s hand, trading it for the weight of a blade.

Severing a dead limb was not the same as slicing open an abdomen. The organs involved required a more precise touch. There was also the risk of hurting the child, a fear Shamir battled with as the knife slipped below skin and fat. Slowly, the uterine membrane that lay beneath was fastidiously snipped and pulled back. Beneath lay a motionless mass. Next to her, Bothild’s hands pushed at the upper portion of the woman’s belly. Wordlessly, Shamir reached for the babe and slipped it free of its mother.

Yet there was nothing. The room was dreadfully quiet, empty save for the hum of healing magic and her own staccato breaths. Shamir stared at the motionless child in her arms. It was fiery red, as she knew it would be, coated in blood and various other fluids. There was a greasy coat to its skin, not unlike animal fat. It was capped with a slight fuzz of pale hair, skin wrinkled fiercely and eyes closed tight. The Dagdan woman swallowed, feeling something akin to despair.

Then, with a wailing hiccup, the child sputtered to life. Liquid poured from its mouth, just as putrid and unpleasant as the sac it was pulled from. The screams it loosed were broken but strong. Shamir wiped the child clean and snapped the cord.

“The babe is alive. Angry and fierce, but alive.” She looked to Bothild, relief breaking over her like a sweeping tide. Yet the nun spared no attention for her. The woman was still bent over Leid, hands pressed to the wide slice. The glow of her hands fluctuated, dimming with each moment that crept by.

“Bothild?” Shamir set the child in a mound of prepared blankets. It squirmed but did not fight against her hands. She pulled away, favoring the older woman with a worried stare. The nun remained as she was, face downcast.

“She’s bleeding inside. I’m trying to stem the flow, but my magic can only slow it.” Her attention shifted to her patient’s legs. A pooling stain of crimson was soaking the sheets. “If I just had a bit more… Oh, Leid. Forgive me.”

Shamir stilled. She turned her head to the side. It was a tragic fate, but not entirely unexpected. The birthing bed was as dangerous as the battlefield. It took great courage to wade through either. She had not known the other woman for long, but Leid was earnest and good. She did not deserve this. _Is a slow death the only fate afforded her?_ Shamir peered balefully at the nun’s glowing hands.

Had there been another healer present, perhaps the woman would survive. Yet the Dagdan woman could not muster a single spark. She cursed her inability, not for the first and certainly not the last. Even if she knew the method, the source would escape her. Healing required great faith in the gods, and Shamir was anything but devout. Leid of Culann would die this day. Her child would be left motherless. A sympathetic pain ached in her chest.

_האם עלי להמשיך ולהיות הרוס מחוסר אמונה_ _? Can I do nothing?_

Shamir blinked as her memory stirred. No. This had been put to rest the week prior. Hadn’t she already accepted that faith was part of her soul? She knew its face – had learned with painstaking patience every jagged fall and harrowing height. Perchance it was not the same as belief in a god, but the strength could be matched. Nonetheless, she had to try. The Dagdan woman wandered back to the woman. She placed her hands beside the nun’s and searched deep within. This power was not bestowed by any deity. It couldn’t have been. It was a gift and choice forged from something deeper.

_אמונה היא אוניברסאלית__. __זה לא צריך להיות מוגבל_. _And neither should I._ Shamir closed her eyes, digging for something nameless yet eternal. A breathless moment passed. Then, something warm bloomed beneath her palms. It passed through her fingers like a sieve and soaked into flesh. Binding. Weaving. _Mending_. Heat raced up her wrists, prickling the skin. It was a strange yet welcome warmth. After an undefined period of time, the heat calmed. Exhaustion settled over her like a shawl, but Shamir kept pouring regardless; a flowing river of everything she could offer. Her eyes flew open as she felt a light touch to her shoulder.

“That’s enough. The bleeding has stopped.” Bothild’s voice sounded distant, somewhere beyond the present. Spots skittered in and out of her vision. Shamir exhaled and the action caused her head to spin. She looked down. Blood slicked her palms, but the flesh beneath was unblemished. The woman’s diaphragm rose and fell in even bursts. Her color, while still pale, did not share the grey hue of a corpse. A sharp cry stole her attention. Her eyes moved up, catching on Bothild’s frame. The nun held the child securely, smiling as her gaze met Shamir’s.

“I think she wants to meet her father. Shall we tell him the good news? I’m sure the poor man has worried a hole into the floor by now.”

“Leid...” Shamir paused, surprised at the rasped quality of her voice. She wet her lips. “Is she—”

“She’ll be fine, thanks to your intervention. An impressive display, if unexpected.” Bothild favored her with a considering stare. Approval lingered in the shadows of it, but also something reflective. A moment passed before her features smoothed. “Come, Shay. You’ve earned a moment’s respite.”

Shamir stood and the earth felt like water beneath her. She used the bed for support. Where had her prior energy gone? Her hands stretched across the bloodstained sheets. The damage was significant, but not spreading. It struck her, the significance of what just occurred. She had expected nothing. However, be it mercy from something greater or her own will made manifest, a woman was saved by her hand. Leid of Culann would live. It was hard to place the emotions that filled her at that notion, yet she dared to name one as joy.

_האם אני מתנחם בכך שהיא תחיה_ _? This woman whom I barely know?_

Shamir blinked. The answer that came was a surprise. She had never thought of herself as particularly empathetic. It was unwise to hold people fondly when loss was an ever-present threat. But staying here had opened something she had long thought gone. Suddenly, the world changed, widening to include more than just her partner.

* * *

The cobbler sobbed in a predictable fashion as his daughter was handed to him. He cradled her to his chest, eyes dewy and large. The babe wasn’t too pleased by his effusive kisses to her scalp. She whined plaintively beneath the adoration. After he was suitably acquainted with her, the man thanked both women profusely. Bothild dismissed the attention in her usual manner, chuckling as he tried to offer her boots a free mending. Shamir watched them in silence. It would be a falsehood if she claimed to be unmoved. However, her joy was a private thing. Sharing so openly was not her way.

The subject turned naturally to Leid's condition. Just as it was before the delivery, no words were traded concerning the woman's precarious labor. Bothild only mentioned the need to cut the child free and nothing further. It was clear the nun wanted to spare the man stress, considering his wife was in no danger at present. Obscuring the truth in favor of comfort was not an unfamiliar concept. Shamir had done worse in her time serving Rhea. However, she had not expected such methods from a woman like Bothild. In the end, the nun explained away Leid's condition as mere exhaustion. The cobbler took it without question, happy to know his wife would recover soon.

“Make sure she gets proper rest,” Bothild went on to say. Her features were carefully arranged into an amiable mask. “Keep the child close to her, though. Since the girl wasn’t born conventionally it’ll be important to establish a bond.”

“Thank you, Sister. We owe you both a great deal.” The man bowed deeply. “Anytime you need a mend, I would be glad to give it! Please, don’t hesitate to call on me.”

“It was no trouble. Was it, Shay?”

The Dagdan woman said nothing to this. She kept her eyes on the nun. After a brief delay, Bothild broke into a low chuckle. They left the cobbler's home soon after, trekking through the wooded outskirts of the village. Conversation did not pass between them. The chapel was still upon their return. No light flickered within the rooms, and only the whisper of wind was heard within its dark corners.

Rather than retiring to her quarters, Bothild sparked the fire pit. The quick flash of fire appeared tiring for the nun. She collapsed in her usual chair, hands hovering greedily over the flames. Shamir took the seat across and they shared a prolonged silence. Eventually, the older woman sighed. Exhaled wisps curled around her head, entwining with smoke.

“A hard day, but less so than it would have been. For a moment, I thought we would be burying her.” Bothild peered at the Dagdan woman, mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Leid was lucky you were there. You and your skillful hands… Tell me, was that the first time you conjured magic?”

“It was.” Shamir clenched her fists, and an echo of warmth bloomed. Magic was not practiced often in Dagda. It was respected, but not treated with the same reverence as the sword. Before Fόdlan, she had very little experience with its applications. How strange it was, to know a well of power existed beneath her skin. But with that knowledge came a venomous sting of frustration.

_Had I known, I could have healed her leg._ Shamir buried these words along with her regret. The past should stay where it was. She shifted her attention to Bothild, searching the woman’s lined features. Bothild returned her stare. She did not shrink from the scrutiny.

“Curious. But I’ll not question our good fortune. Everything is as it should be, and a happy family can remain whole.” The nun smoothed her robe, flattening it over her knees.

“You kept the truth from them.” Shamir pressed her lips together firmly. “Quite easily, too.”

“Why shouldn’t I? The danger had passed. I didn’t see a reason to divulge every ugly detail.” Bothild’s brow wrinkled. “It would have just upset that poor man. Do you find fault with this?”

“No. It just made me keenly aware that you were accustomed to obscuring the truth.” Shamir scanned her frame, not bothering to hide her suspicion. “From the way you speak, to the words you choose, all of it is carefully formed. No one acts like that without good reason.”

“Have you come to distrust me, after all?” The older woman sat deeply in her chair. Her chin as her eyes narrowed. “We all have things to hide, Shay. You and Cassandra know that well.”

“I know only what you’ve told me, and even that is noticeably little.” The Dagdan woman crossed her legs irritably. “I don’t consider you a danger. I’m not that foolish. You didn’t have to take us in, and I recognize that. However, it’s just now occurring to me that I should have questioned that generosity sooner.”

“You believe my kindness to be a crime?”

“No. I just think you had a goal for us from the start.” Shamir glared heatedly at the other woman. “I don’t like being toyed with. I also don’t enjoy being used. Whether the reasons are pure or not, I tire of being a pawn in someone else’s game.”

“You give me far too much credit. I don’t have the patience, nor the skill, to employ a gambit such as the one you imply.” Bothild folded her hands atop her lap. “If I recognized your value, can I truly be at fault? If I advised in a certain way, does that make it a command?”

“A subtle manipulation does not change its nature. It’s still manipulation regardless,” Shamir remarked bitterly. “Don’t think me oblivious to your flimsy attempts at justification. My last employer was full of those.”

“I imagine so. The Archbishop always struck me as someone disposed towards prevaricating. People like her are rarely afforded the chance to be direct.”

Shamir paused, her agitation cut off at the knees. Shock replaced it readily. If Bothild noticed, she did not comment. The nun’s eyes were caught on the fire. Flames lay reflected in the steel hue.

“If I could be frank, it wasn’t in my designs to happen upon you in a storm. You did that yourselves. I can’t be blamed for the fickleness of weather.”

“You recognized us immediately,” Shamir accused. Tellingly, Bothild did not refute the claim.

“Soaked with rain and needing shelter, was I meant to turn you aside? That was genuine empathy on my behalf, not the claws of opportunity.” The older woman sighed and the dark crept beneath the crags of her face. “You saw for yourself, the state of this village. I could not manufacture such suffering. The only thing I am guilty of is revealing its scope.”

“From the start, you counted on our sympathies. You wanted us to care about this village enough to save it.” The Dagdan woman rankled, gnawing her lip in agitation. “Playing the wise and kindly crone, leading us to conclusions you prepared in advance—”

“And what is wrong with that?” The nun’s voice sharpened abruptly. “Everything I have done has been for the better. If I used you, then so have you both used me. I never claimed to be wise or kind. That was something you decided for yourself.”

“I can acknowledge your intentions as good-natured, but that means little. The Archbishop feigned the same and look what resulted.”

“Do not compare me to her.” Her expression twisted unpleasantly. At last, Shamir could see the fangs this woman carefully concealed. The look she sent was scornful. “If I acted covertly, it was not out of malice. If I gave you reason enough to care, how can that be wrong? Yes, I prodded, but I did not force Cassandra to seek out aid. I did not force you to heal that woman, either.”

Shamir averted her eyes. It was the truth. Suggestion didn’t equal command, she knew that well. Bothild’s deception vexed, but it was not the origin of her disquiet. The older woman calmed.

“I could have been forthright, but would you have cared enough to act? Had I begged, you would not have been moved. So yes, I nurtured affection with words and deeds. However, I never lied to you.” Bothild held up her hands. “I am feeble, so I needed assistance. A shutter was broken, so it needed to be fixed. I knew of a wealthy man in Itha, so I pointed Cassandra in the right direction. You believe my suggestions spurred action? No. Both of you acted of your own volition.”

“A person with nothing to hide does not wear a complex mask.” Shamir shook her head, tone curt. She stood, and the shadow of her frame painted Bothild’s brow. “I don’t claim to know your full intentions. If you’re an enemy, say it plain.”

“Once… that description would have been apt. I won’t deny this.” The nun stared at her, and neither fear nor anger stained her face. Instead, there was only great fatigue. “Yet those days are long past. I am who I choose to be. At present, I am only an old woman who means you no harm. No matter what you say, I know you care for this village just as I do. But if you are looking for reasons to leave, do not make me one of them.”

“I’m not looking for one.”

“Aren’t you?” A skeptical laugh poured out of the woman’s mouth. “Is that not the heart of this? Come now, Shay. Let’s not fool ourselves.”

She motioned towards the Dagdan woman.

"I pose no threat to you or Cassandra. Whatever path your lives take will not be because of my meddling. Should you leave, it would be by your own will. The same can be said should you choose to stay. Still, let it be for the right reasons. Obligation is not a foundation in which you can build a life."

“I’m surprised you’re saying that, considering all the effort you’ve put into the contrary,” Shamir commented darkly. Bothild shrugged off the petulant response. She rubbed her hands above the grasping flames.

“You may think of me as you please. It does not change the advice I offer.” The nun raised a brow in question. “Knowing what you do now, has your heart changed course? Does the fondness you’ve seeded mean nothing now that you can see its roots?”

Shamir declined to answer, but the older woman bobbed her head nonetheless.

“I thought so. Whatever your opinion of me, what’s done is done. I cannot afford regret.” She changed her focus to the nearest window. After a brief exhale, she rose on her heels. “The hour is late. You should get some rest while you can.”

The older woman left then, hobbling steps echoing in the quiet. Shamir stayed a moment longer, mulling over their conversation. Truthfully, she did not know whether her frustration was aimed at the nun. Deceit was something she employed when it suited. None of them were innocent, but perhaps it was the unexpected nature of it all. She hadn’t expected falsehood from a woman she had grown to trust. Culann had not changed, but the circumstances of their arrival had.

Yet if Shamir were honest, it mattered little. They would not be leaving until the spring, and she needed to adjust to that reality. A long winter still lay ahead. So the Dagdan woman went to her rooms and climbed into bed. Catherine was blissfully asleep, hardly stirring as Shamir slipped beneath the sheet. A rumbling murmur came from her partner's chest. As if sensing the Dagdan woman's presence, an arm was tossed around her waist. Catherine breathed into her hair and the heat called to mind the night's events.

Shamir sidled close, relaxing into her partner’s chest. Despite her misgivings, the nun was right in her observation. She cared deeply for this place, and not just for Catherine’s sake. They had found each other here; razed the foundation of who they used to be and built something stronger. And she knew, if she did stay, it would be entirely because she wished it. There didn’t need to be a deeper rationale than that.

_If we had done nothing, what would I have felt? _The answer she found was not a surprise, but it moved her all the same. It would have wounded her, she discovered, for these people to perish. And that was more reason enough.

* * *

Shamir awoke to a kiss along her brow. She squinted, the morning light blinding her momentarily. Above her, Catherine’s face came into focus. The woman long frame was stretched across the bed, the heat of her body filling the bedding. Blue eyes stared down at her with amusement.

“Long night? You don’t normally sleep so deeply.” Her voice was rough from sleep; pleasantly, but Shamir would not give her the satisfaction of knowing that. She turned on her side, taking refuge from the sun in her partner’s shadow.

“It wasn’t a typical labor. There were complications.” She sighed into the pillow, reminded of the harrowing moment when a tiny body lay motionless in her hands. “I had witnessed childbirth before, but I never needed to cut a child free of its mother. It was fortunate she was late in her pregnancy. Otherwise...”

“I think I understand.” Catherine winced. “But they’re doing well, right?”

“They are.” Shamir took a moment to weigh her words. She did not want to rehash everything that had transpired, both during and after. “There was a moment when we thought the mother was lost. She was bleeding from within and Bothild could not heal the damage fast enough.”

“But she eventually managed it.”

"No." Shamir pulled back to stare up into her partner's face. A faint impression of heat and blood caused her fingers to tingle. "I... thought it was tragic, that she would die for simply wanting to be a mother. And I knew I could no longer stand by and watch."

“What happened?” Fair brows pulled together as confusion worked across Catherine’s face.

"I placed my hands over her and sought to heal." Shamir looked at her lover for a time, wondering how she would respond. "I didn't expect anything. There was no premeditation to my actions. I just acted, and suddenly, I could feel a well where there had once been nothing."

“You healed her.” Shock passed across Catherine’s gaze, but also something hesitantly named as awe. “Well, I’ll be damned. I knew you had a magic touch, but...”

“Be serious.” Shamir scowled, not in the mood for careless jests. Sensing this, Catherine’s features composed. The other woman stared at her evenly before squeezing her hip.

“Sorry. I’m relieved they both lived, but also surprised by all this. Magic has never been your forte, least of all faith.”

“I’m aware. It came as a surprise to me as well.” A lingering guilt burned in the Dagdan woman’s chest. She bit her cheek, conscious of her partner’s intent stare. “I didn’t think I had that within me. If I had known before–”

“Hey, none of that now.” Catherine moved close, hands running over her back. The touch was soothing and steadied her nerves. “We can’t know what could have been, so it’s a bit silly to stress over that. For what it’s worth, I think things were meant to happen this way.”

“Because of divine ordinance?” Shamir ventured. Catherine smirked, taking the barb in good humor. She grazed the smaller woman’s ribs with playful fingers.

“I know better than to spout that sort of stuff around you. I’m an old dog, but I can learn new tricks.” Catherine paused, tipping her head. “I just meant everything that’s happened has worked out in the end. If I was perfectly healthy, I think I would have gotten us captured at some point. My anger was too great, and all that stopped me was this bum leg.”

“So you think it’s providence.” Shamir frowned, not pleased by the notion.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” The other woman burst into a quick laugh. “But you can’t deny how different things would have been. Even your choice to leave me in Fhirdiad worked in our favor. Had you stayed, maybe both of us would be dead. No matter what struggles we’ve faced, we always come out better for it. So if I choose to think of this scar as more blessing than curse, who’s to say I’m wrong?”

“You’re so simple. If Byleth stood in front of you, I doubt you’d get on your knees and thank her.”

“Sure, but it’s more the opportunity that resulted I find myself grateful for. Had we not fled Charon and headed north, we wouldn’t have stopped here. I would still be the same as I always was. Never changing.” Catherine’s expression changed into something wistful. “People aren’t built to stay the same. We needed to grow, and that’s what we’ve done. No matter what happens next, I can’t bring myself to regret that.”

“Neither can I,” Shamir admitted. She reached for her partner, fingers tracing the planes of Catherine’s face. The defined jut of her jaw, the point of sharp cheekbones, the broad bow of her smile. Catherine, unambiguously alive and happier than she had ever been. Shamir could recognize the weight of that. “Then do you believe everything happened for a reason?

“Could be, or maybe we finally started making the right choices. I know I did.” Catherine leaned in for a firm kiss. There was something to be said for the ease in how they fit together. Both were made from jagged parts, and that made them unpalatable to most. While the Dagdan woman was outwardly abrasive, her partner’s edges were carefully concealed beneath an affable facade. Yet they were there, fitting to every cold groove Shamir held. They worked together, not by divine decree but because they recognized each other’s disjointed pieces.

_המוות רצה אותך__. __אבל אני חמדן__._ _I won’t share you with anyone._

She clutched at Catherine, hands wrapping in her hair. Inflamed by her thoughts, she pulled the other woman close until solid weight rested above her. Catherine groaned, the sound comprised of both amusement and passion. Sadly, any amorous notions were soon dashed as the door flew open. A brief patter of footsteps followed.

“Bothild says you need to get up!” Connla chirped. The boy paused as he took in their position. “...Oh. You two are being gross.”

“The door was shut for a reason.” Catherine huffed, flopping onto her side. “What’s the hurry anyway? It’s still early morning.”

“She said you have a guest.” Connla shrugged. Then the boy scurried off. “I woke them up! Can I get breakfast now?”

“Hmph. That kid is lucky he didn’t get an eyeful.” Blue eyes stared forlornly at the door. A displeased scowl twisted Catherine’s mouth. “I guess we should see who’s calling for us. It could be Weyland. The man’s been in a near panic all week.”

“You did heap a lot of work on him in a short amount of time.” Shamir pushed away from her partner, ignoring the woman’s unhappy grunt. “I imagine carrying the responsibility of Culann’s future also has a hand in his concern.”

“I will have you know he’s been singing my praises.” Catherine scratched her chest idly, gaze flying to the ceiling. “Well, maybe not in public. He called me by name a few times, though. I think he’s starting to like me!”

“If that’s how you gauge esteem, I should be your biggest admirer.”

“Heh…” A familiar roguish grin appeared. “There’s a thought. Are you admitting that I can make you ‘sing’?”

“On occasion. But not when your breath reeks of sour.” Shamir dressed quickly, avoiding Catherine’s form. The moment had passed and they both needed to tend to their daily chores. She hesitated, realizing how routine their lives had become. Once, that would have troubled her and caused her skin to itch with the need for escape. Even when she served under Rhea, that nagging ache had always been there, lying in wait. Yet she did not feel it now.

Arguably, this life was far duller. No missions to complete. No training to accomplish. Only the simple tasks of an ordinary life. There was some irony there, considering her origins in Dagda. The adventure-seeking girl of her youth… what would she have thought of this? Shamir blinked, watching her partner for a moment. Catherine was grumbling to herself mightily, struggling with a knot in her bootlaces. She was rumpled from sleep, but still painfully beautiful.

Shamir hid a smile beneath her scarf. Surely, that girl would have been envious of her good fortune.

* * *

It was a surprise to see the cobbler back on the chapel porch. She had assumed the man would want to spend the day with his family, rather than darkening their doorstep. Shamir tensed, preparing for the worst. Had the child fallen ill during the night? Was the damage Leid suffered not healed as previously thought? Her worries grew quiet as she spotted his face. The man was beaming wide, free of the anxiety that usually marked him.

“Lady Shay.”

Shamir blinked as he stooped into a bow. “I was hoping to speak with you. I hope I’m not disturbing your morning.”

“Disturbed? No.” Interrupted yes, but she would try not to hold that against him. Shamir scanned him shortly, trying to read his mood. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who leaves his wife unattended after birth. Both of them are well?”

“Of course! My apologies if I worried you.” His face fell slightly. He retreated a step, sheepish. “When my wife woke, she was ecstatic. A little sore, but no worse for wear. But she is a bit embarrassed to have troubled you so much.”

“It’s fine. I only did what was needed.” Shamir inhaled slowly, allowing her momentary fear to drain. She was glad the woman survived. Her recovery would be difficult with the current season, but she had her husband and newborn daughter for comfort. Whatever ill-fate Leid had before was thankfully averted. The cobbler clapped his hands together.

“And we’re pleased you did! That’s why we wanted to show you our appreciation. The village will be gathering in the square tonight. We thought it would be nice, considering the good luck we’ve had lately.” He hesitated, eyes darting over her shoulder. She heard Catherine’s heavy steps before the woman appeared. The cobbler was not a tall man, by any means. He was shorter than her by an inch and thin as a whippet. Next to Catherine, he looked positively diminutive. The man shrank visibly as her partner stared at him.

“Who’s this now?” The former Knight craned her head down, making a show of it. She smirked in her usual rakish way. “If it’s an admirer, I don’t blame you. But be careful. This one has fangs.”

“Ignore her. She doesn’t mean half the ridiculous things she says.” Shamir rolled her eyes. “You were saying something about a celebration?”

“That’s right.” The cobbler blinked, still ogling Catherine. His eyes were wide as they flit to her arms. Her partner had never been lacking in muscle, but hard lines currently beneath her clothing were that of constant labor. A swordsman’s build was different than a smith’s wiry frame. Knowing Catherine, the woman likely enjoyed the effortless intimidation she caused. The cobbler cleared his throat nervously.

“You’ve done so much for us these past few months. Your arrival was surely a blessing from the Goddess.” The man’s eyes brightened once more. Unexpectedly, he swept into another bow. This one was aimed in Catherine’s direction. “Without you both, I’m sure Culann would have fallen. You deserve to bask in the good you’ve brought us. I’m sure the others wish to thank you as well.”

“A party...” Her partner rubbed her jaw in thought. “That’s not a bad idea. Everyone could use a chance to unwind. Hell, maybe I can convince Weyland to come.”

“Would it be wise to postpone your work?” Shamir asked, trying to conceal her discomfort. She wasn’t too keen on rubbing elbows with strangers, let alone people who seem to hold her on a pedestal. She weathered the festivities at Garreg Mach, but always with great reluctance. However, she was certain rural villagers would be better company than perfumed nobility. That alone would make it preferable. Catherine dismissed the question with a glib wave.

“It’ll be fine! We’re a few days ahead of schedule anyway. I don’t see the harm in relaxing for a few hours.” Her brows rose in question. “Unless there’s some other matters you need to attend to?”

Shamir narrowed her eyes. A sigh ripped from her mouth as she crossed her arms.

“Fine. I suppose we can make time for it.”

“Wonderful.” Catherine looked to the cobbler, offering the man a grin. “You can count us in. There will be plenty of food and drink, right? I know I spotted a few bottles of ale in those supplies…”

Shamir was tempted to scold her, but she bit her tongue. The harsh words she had prepared dissipated. Perhaps it wasn’t a terrible idea to allow themselves a moment of peace. These people were not apt to celebrate often. Their lives could be hard and short. Why not take the chance when it was presented? And Catherine, who had suffered so much and came so far, deserved a pleasant evening.

The day passed quickly from there. Their visitor, content with their acceptance, hurried back to his family. Word would spread, as it tended to do in small settlements, and all would expect their attendance. She still didn’t know what to make of their adoration, but she was sure it would fade with time. Hopefully. For her part, Catherine just seemed eager to drink her fill. It had been a number of months since they drank anything other than water. Shamir wouldn’t be surprised if the former Knight had to be dragged back in a barrel wagon.

Connla shared her partner’s excitement. The boy talked of nothing else when he heard, jabbering on about what food he could fill his pockets with. Aife wasn’t so chuffed. It was natural, for one as timid as her, but Bothild would hear no word of complaint. The nun insisted it would do her some good to join them; and within the confines of the chapel, her word was indisputable law.

However, the girl perked when she heard Shamir would be there. For reasons unknown, Aife had taken to trailing her shadow. There had been no repeats of the night she sang to her, yet Shamir could occasionally hear the girl hum a familiar tune beneath her breath. The Dagdan woman had mixed feelings when she discovered this. The girl couldn’t have possibly known the words, just the rhythm. For a brief time, Shamir considered teaching her. Sharing her language with someone else was an odd concept. Not unpleasant, just… unexpected. Still, if it gave the girl comfort, she would not take it from her. And if Aife wanted to learn more, Shamir could be obliged to teach.

As for the nun, she did not remark on the pending festivities. Bothild was suspiciously quiet and had been since their talk. Yet Shamir did not get the impression she was irritated. She only appeared pensive, frequently staring out the window with curious weight. Despite her outwardly warm temperament, the nun shared nothing of her feelings. Shamir respected that. It would be hypocritical of her otherwise.

Soon, evening stole upon them and they collectively headed for the village. To Shamir’s surprise, Catherine had managed to convince the surly smith to join them. The man didn't seem particularly pleased, but whatever misgivings he might have aired were not spoken aloud. As expected, many heads jerked their direction as they exited the woods.

Their company was a strange collection. A nun and her assistant; a smith and his self-proclaimed apprentice; all of them frayed and weathered with two children nipping at their heels. It sounded like the start of an off-color joke. But reality was often stranger than fiction, and the truth of who they were was extraordinary indeed. Hopefully, Catherine’s newfound desire to be honest would not extend to her former identity. The Emperor wouldn’t tolerate a corpse returning from the dead.

“Ah! Like an oasis in a desert.” The aforementioned woman, who was very much alive, drank deep from her tankard. “Tastes like piss, but I didn’t expect better. Still, it’s palatable enough. You think they get their barley from the miller?”

“I imagine so. Culann isn’t profitable enough to barter outside the immediate area.” Shamir leaned her head atop a palm. The village didn’t have a plaza, but they managed to place a few chairs and tables around the local well. It was a ramshackle ‘festival’ at best, but no one appeared displeased. The snow had melted some in recent days, but the ground remained icy. It couldn’t have been further from the ornate affairs the Church threw. She tapped the table, somewhat pleased by the thought.

“You should slow down. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Come on, Shamir. This is only my second cup.” Catherine pouted. “Do you really want to rob me of my fun?”

“Considering I’m the one who has to deal with you later, yes. I do.”

“You make that sound as if I’m incorrigible. I do have _some_ restraint.”

“The only restraint you have is when you’re holding back vomit.” Shamir looked away from the other woman, noting where their group had sequestered themselves. Weyland and Bothild were talking easily some distance away. Shamir watched as the smith chuckled at something, tugging at his mustache. They seemed to get along well enough, and she wondered if a bit of history was there. The rest of the village avoided them deftly, but neither seemed to notice.

“Heh, the kids look like they’re having fun.” Catherine motioned towards the children and smiled. “Although, Connla could stand to be less inquisitive. Your hunter friend looks like he wants to run away into the night.”

“I don’t think sawing off someone’s arm constitutes friendship.” Shamir turned her eye to the children’s location. Connla was in the midst of pestering the former hunter, gesticulating wildly. The man’s face was an interesting shade of red. Aife was watching her brother, face pale as the ground beneath them. “We should fetch them. A child’s curiosity can be a brutal thing.”

“If he doesn’t ask questions, how will he learn?” Catherine jerked as the shorter woman swatted her gut. She rubbed the area with mock pain. “Alright! I’ll stop him.”

She cleared her throat theatrically before shouting across the crowd.

“Connla! Aife! Leave the man be. If you can't act civil we'll have to take you home."

The boy deflated, but he did not complain. A short nod was given before he sped off. Aife followed after, bowing awkwardly in the hunter’s direction. Catherine shot a triumphant grin at Shamir.

“Look at that! Didn’t even have to say it twice. When I was his age, you had to threaten me with a switch to do anything. Bothild has them trained pretty well.”

“She runs a tight ship. Her words are soft, but there’s steel to her spine.” Shamir was reminded of the night prior. She frowned, lower lip taken between her teeth. “Catherine, does her name sound familiar to you?”

“How do you mean?” Confusion passed over blue eyes. Shamir took a moment to consider her phrasing. She did not want to toss around baseless accusations, but the nun's peculiarities couldn't be ignored.

“When we fought the Western Church, was a name similar to hers ever spoken?”

“I can’t say there was. At least, not that I recall.” Catherine stilled, and the shadow of a sleeping predator lurked behind her stare. “Why? Has she given you a reason to think that?"

Shamir waited, noting the fierce undercurrent to her partner's words. Eventually, she shook her head.

“...Never mind. It’s just my overactive imagination at play.” She looked at the nun once more. The secrets Bothild held were assuredly vile. Why else would she hide them? But they were not a part of who the woman was at present. Just like them, the older woman was seeking shelter in this place. If she sought some form of absolution within her service to this town, that was her choice to make.

“You’ve always been unreasonably paranoid.” Catherine snickered. Her frame uncoiled until she was near boneless in her chair. A pretty flush was beginning to color her features. “Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t overdo it. The room is already starting to get fuzzy around the edges.”

“Now who’s the lightweight?”

“Oh shut it. I think the alcohol content is stronger in this brew. That or the stuff I used to drink was watered down to shit.” Catherine appeared oddly offended as she considered the latter.

“It could be both. I doubt this village has a legitimate brewery.” Shamir paused, distracted as she glimpsed the cobbler and his family. When they arrived they had been there to greet her warmly. Both of them were effusive in their gratitude and quick to praise. They only took their leave when they sensed Shamir’s growing discomfort. Currently, the man was hovering near his wife, hand placed atop her shoulder. Leid was sitting comfortably, eyes reserved for the tiny babe in her arms. Love glittered like stars in her eyes, and perhaps that was not too far a description from the truth. Both could navigate the worst of storms.

Shamir pursed her lips, unnerved by her own sentiment. Yet she found herself peering at Catherine all the same. Her partner was oblivious, smile crookedly at the modest crowd. The celebration was small as promised, but not filled with strangers. The faces she saw were all known to her; people she had come to know and whose names she had learned from frequent visits. And as they laughed and spoke among each other, she discovered contentment in their joy.

It should have been a revelation. And it was, just not to any great extent. Suddenly, Shamir pondered the meaning of home. Was it the place she had been raised? Was it the land she had bled for and received only loss? The answer was no longer clear. Needing something to anchor her, the Dagdan woman reached for Catherine’s hand. It was warm and solid, rough with the texture of life.

Her partner faced her curiously, eyes probing. And in that color she saw it. Not the ocean of her former home, nor a river aimlessly flowing, but a well meant just for her. Clean, clear, and devoid of poison. Once, she would not have appreciated such imagery. No excitement or mystery lay at the bottom of a well. But that life was for another woman.

_אתה נמצא במקום בו ביתי נח__._ _And whether we stay or leave, that will not change._ Shamir curled her fingers around Catherine’s. She imagined for a moment, the woman asking her to stay. Not just for the season, but forever. Fear did not rise within her, neither did frustration or restlessness. She felt Catherine move closer.

“I must be poor company. You’re spending more time with your thoughts than with me.” Her partner’s lips pulled. “Something worth sharing?”

“Not really.” Shamir looked up at the sky. Grey clouds had gathered in a dense quilt Another bout of snow was imminent, yet she didn’t bemoan the possibility. After all, it would mean more nights spent within Catherine's arms. Not a bad trade, by her measure. "I was just mulling over the wisdom of kissing you. We are in public.”

“Heh, I don’t think they would complain. Most of them look half in love with you anyway. It might do them some good to see where your affections lie.”

“So you would agree to establish a claim?” The Dagdan woman returned her partner’s smile, though hers was far more sly. “That’s very mercenary of you, Catherine. You're lucky I find that attractive.”

“I have my moments.” The former Knight leaned in. Their lips came together with ease. Shamir placed a free hand on her lover's cheek. Catherine sighed and the richness of ale filled her nose. It should have been off-putting. But the reminder of her partner’s bad habits elicited an ache of fondness. Then, something cold touched her brow. Shamir opened her eyes briefly. It was snowing. She blinked as she heard Catherine click her tongue.

“We might have a mountain of powder by the morning.” She cocked a brow in a coltish tease. “I bet you’re ruing the day we decided to head north. Am I right?”

Shamir glanced at the clouds before meeting burnished blue. She kept her hand atop the woman’s cheek, thumb tracing the ridge of Catherine’s jaw.

“Perhaps, but I can adapt.” Shamir kissed her, long and deep. The enduring grasp of winter still elicited irritation, but she felt none of that now. Even as the snow continued to fall and ice coated her hair, she could only feel the heat of Catherine’s skin. No, Shamir would never love the winter. But she loved Catherine. And, if she were honest, she also loved this home they were forging together.

**Next Chapter: Discontinuities**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Did you guys know that Shamir makes for a great magic unit? Her growths may not be fantastic (a switch to Gremory fixes this), but she's the only one in the entire Church who can learn Physic. Which is really strange when you think about it. She also gets Fimbulvetr and Sagittae, giving her some great offense. This chapter was a bit of a nod to that. The other concept I wanted to play with was the source for faith magic. Classical depictions have it as a direct result of a patron God but I like the ones that pull strength from a certain belief. My favorite application of that is in Pillars (i know, I know. I'm a broken record) where Paladins can find the source of their faith from concepts such as honesty, violence, or even just gold. It really hammers home that faith is attained from seeing something as meaningful. It's a personal experience. As for the stuff with Bothild, I wanted to subvert her archetype a bit. I hope you find the result somewhat interesting! The next chapter is gonna throw a wrench into the mix. I hope you guys are prepared ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, I appreciate any thoughts and comments. Stay safe! - AdraCat


	19. Discontinuities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past returns and gnaws at old wounds. A final choice needs to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much love to my beta, johnxfire <3

The vanishing of the Blue Sea Star meant the heart of winter had arrived. The first blizzard of the season struck fast, burying the north in ice. It would be a trial for any wagons to pass through the roads. It was by the Goddess’ grace that Culann was comfortably supplied before the snow began to fall in earnest. With that knowledge, Catherine felt little concern for the village. She was certain the people would be well until the winters winds slowed their sting.

As for her and Weyland, the work had only just begun. The Baron’s demands were not stringent, but they were numerous. The crates of raw iron alone needed to be smelted into usable stock. The labor was tedious and time-consuming, but Catherine found no complaints rising to her tongue. She owed the Baron much; they all did. The hale faces of each villager encouraged her onward. Catherine had failed many people throughout her life. Culann would not be among that number.

She halted in the midst of a smite, lungs heaving and face damp. Wiping her face with a rag, Catherine reached for her tongs. Then she took the iron bar atop the anvil and dunked it within the water trough. It sizzled audibly, bubbles rushing to the surface. The Metal sang against her hand as it cooled. Reassured by the faint vibration, Catherine raised the bar to inspect its shape. No bends or cracks; there was only solid structure. She grinned and tossed the iron into the steadily growing pile.

Catherine stole a look at Weyland. The man was taking a break from the forge. He sat atop a nearby stump, glaring a hole into the clouds. Her employer was a workhorse, but his lungs could not bear the stress of both smoke and vicious chill. He needed to rest often, and it was evident he despised this fact. She ambled up to the man, ignoring his mulish glower.

“Damn winter is giving us no favors.” Weyland made a guttural noise in his chest before spitting into the snow. “We could have been finished if the storm hadn’t caked everything in ice. Most of our morning was spent thawing rather than forging.”

“It can’t be helped. But at least the snow has stopped.” Catherine shook out her hands. The heat was already leaving her fingers. “Do you think another will hit soon?”

“Without a doubt. Hopefully, the winds will be calm until after the next resupply.” The smith stretched his legs, feet digging beneath the pale. “Hmph. Every year, I think to myself that I should pick up and leave. The south doesn’t have this much trouble.”

“Would you?”

“No.” He rubbed his grizzled cheeks. “I may grumble, but this place is still my home. I did consider leaving once after… Well, you know what I lost. But I never could muster the desire. Even if I left, this place would still be in my veins.”

“I’m not sure I ever had that.” Catherine considered the places she once called home. She remembered Charon like a dream; formless and faint. The estate was a haven for ghosts, and the family she knew was fractured beyond recognition. Garreg Mach was little better. She had found temporary contentment within its halls, but it was built on a foundation of delusion. Roots couldn’t be placed there, no matter how much she had wished otherwise.

“A pity, but not a surprise. If you had a home, you wouldn’t be wandering.” Weyland grunted, head twisting towards her. He stared at her intently, but it was not an unkind look. “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do once winter is over?”

“I have.” Catherine hesitated. She passed a hand over her neck, averting her gaze to the sky. “No solid plans have been made yet. My partner wanted to head into Sreng originally. I don’t know what she wants now.”

“Sreng isn’t to my tastes, but I’ve already made my opinion clear.” The man pulled at the thin hairs decorating his chin. It was an oddly nervous gesture. “I won’t say I like having you around, but I have grown accustomed. It would be a shame to lose that.”

“Ha! Are you asking me to stay, Weyland?”

“Don’t look so smug. I only ask for practical reasons, not because I’m fond of you.” He snorted, but his aggravation had no true bite. “Even if it’s only for the winter, staying in the chapel can’t be comfortable. A building like that must be drafty.”

“It’s not so bad. Bothild keeps the rooms warm with magic. Even if a stiff breeze wails at the shutters, it doesn’t keep for long.” Catherine’s thoughts turned to the previous night. She smiled, recalling the way Shamir had burrowed into her for warmth. The former mercenary could be rather adorable. She would never say as much, of course. Catherine knew better than to poke a panther. She heard Weyland huff beside her.

“That so? Well…” He licked his lips, crossing his arms. “You may be comfortable now, but what if you decide to stay? You can’t count on the Sister’s sympathy forever. A chapel isn’t the same as a homestead.”

“I suppose not.” The apprentice smith eyed him for a time. “What are you trying to say?”

“Only the truth. If you were of a mind to stay, you’ll need a proper home.” Weyland’s features were collected, betraying nothing. “I didn’t always live in the woods. Before the war, I plied my trade within the village. The home I kept is still there, empty but livable. I took a gander myself recently, and found nothing amiss.”

“Is that why you were there when I rode into town? I thought it was odd to find you roaming around.” Catherine blinked at the man, his hints finally registering. “Are you offering that house to us?”

“I am.” The smith squirmed the longer she stared at him. He cleared his throat, betraying his discomfort. “Don’t look at me all doughy-eyed. The house is small and stale from disuse. It’ll need a lot of fixing before you could move in.”

“That’s still an incredibly generous offer.”

“No more than you bargaining with that baron. The way I see it, I’m just paying it forward.” Weyland stood, back popping. He grimaced and massaged the area. “Other than that, it’s just not practical to keep two smiths chained to one forge. We’ll get more work done if you have your own. Should be less of a hassle too.”

The man halted, becoming aware of her growing smile. He coughed as she beamed at him.

“It’ll prevent those imbeciles from bleating at me for nails and the like. A smith in town means less annoyances for me.”

“Weyland…” Catherine stepped close before snatching the man into a hearty embrace. He struggled in her grip, arms batting at her. She ignored the half-hearted strikes and held him tighter. “Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Oh, stow it. As I said, this isn’t me being kind.” Weyland finally managed to pry her off. He stumbled away, straightening his soot-stained apron. The look on his face was overwhelmingly abashed. “Anyway, the key is yours _if _you decide to stay. Better you live there than for a perfectly good house go unused.”

“Are you sure? You could move back yourself—”

“Hmph. I had my fill of nosy busybodies intruding into my business. Let them drive you insane, rather than me.” Weyland breathed out, chest falling with his rigid posture. “That house was meant for a family. It would only be wasted on me.”

He slid a hand into the pocket of his apron. Then he extended his palm, bearing an iron key to the mountain air. Catherine reached for it without hesitation. She curled her fingers around the metal, grin changing shape into something softer.

“This means the world. I can’t say Shay will think the same.” Catherine tucked the key away. Her throat felt tight suddenly. “I don’t know what she’ll say, truthfully. But I think I’m finally ready to ask. When I do, I’ll be sure to mention this gift.”

“That’s a fine compromise.” The smith nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied. “For what it’s worth, your woman has a good head on her. I think she’ll see the wisdom in staying. There’s no sense in heading to Sreng on a fool’s errand.”

“We had our reasons. Some of them will need to be considered when the time comes.” Catherine’s mood dipped as thoughts of the Empire intruded. Months had passed since Fhirdiad’s fall. The Emperor’s influence would have spread far and wide by now. Once winter passed, each day they remained would be a test of fate. However, the Emperor thought her long dead.

What reason would she have to think Thunder Catherine had lived? There would be none so long as Melaina kept her silence. Her sister had changed greatly, but she doubted the younger woman would aid in her murder. Since there were no murmurings of her name throughout the north, that assumption appeared sound. She couldn’t say the same of her partner.

_Her hatred for Fόdlan is well known_. Catherine rubbed her nose idly, lost in thought. _They won’t believe her to be hiding in Faerghus; least of all Culann. We’re safe here. _The silent reassurance sparked her confidence anew. She strode to the workbench and retrieved her hammer. Spirit soaring, Catherine returned to the work that she had come to love. Each clash of metal echoed the gallop of her heart. The key in her pocket burned with pleasant heat; a promise of a future yet to come.

_Tonight… I’ll ask her._

* * *

Catherine departed when the light began to fade. She rode atop Saloma, barely cognizant of her surroundings. Despite the surly wind and the faint dust of snow that had begun to fall, her smile refused to fade. The smith’s gift sat securely upon her person, its weight keenly felt through her clothes. It was an understatement to call it unexpected. Weyland was an irascible goat of a man, but she dared to call him good-natured. He was a bit like her partner in that way. And just like Shamir, Catherine was sure he would deny it.

She chuckled, mood buoyed by these pleasant musings. As she journeyed through the trees, it occurred to her that this trek might soon become unnecessary. If all went well, Catherine would have her own forge to survey. _A home to keep. A hearth to stoke. A life to build._ Her hand trailed down, resting against the metal in her pocket. She didn’t know what would happen or how Shamir would answer. Catherine tried to temper her expectations, but her mind raced with possibility. Hope flooded her breast as she neared the chapel grounds.

She could picture her partner’s initial reticence well enough. While she didn’t look it, Shamir made a hobby of worry. The Dagdan woman was a natural-born pessimist. It was a trait that had saved their hide, more often than not. This would be little different, but Catherine knew an ample amount of consideration would be given. Careful thought was just her partner’s wont. She wouldn’t take her any other way.

Another smile pulled at her mouth. Had anyone loved so fiercely or deeply? Somehow, Catherine doubted it. This warm flood in her chest must have been singular. Nothing in her life had ever come as close to this. Serving Lady Rhea had brought her great pleasure, but the approval of divinity could not match the joy she found in Shamir’s touch. Before, she had been satisfied with only the cold words of scripture. But the baser joys she had once denigrated held far more than that. Happiness truly was strange and wonderful. So was the woman who inspired it.

Before Catherine could slip deeper into tender thoughts of her partner, the chapel came into view. However, she greeted by something she could never have expected. A group of mounted soldiers surrounded the chapel front. Their armor reflected the gray sheet of the heavens, and Catherine stilled at the sight. They did not appear to notice her, too preoccupied with whatever had earned their attention. At the front was a man garbed in blue with a silver band atop his brow. The gold of his hair was distinctive and starkly familiar.

_Rufus._ Catherine stopped breathing, hands wringing around the reins. The Duke of Itha had come to Culann. Had she been spotted while on the road? The soldier who stopped her... Had it been then? It was the only explanation that made sense. The baron seemed genuine enough in his need. She doubted he recognized her regardless. Catherine swallowed her shock and straightened. The possibilities were vast, but also moot. Whatever his intentions, the Duke had come for her. The former Knight tensed as she heard the man speak.

“I tire of this runaround, so I will once more. Where is Ser Catherine?” Rufus sat high atop his mount. His voice was strained, patience tried. She couldn’t see who he was speaking to, but knew it was likely Bothild. Shamir was too careful to be caught unaware.

“And I said there was no person by that name here.” The nun’s level cadence sounded from behind the mass of steel. “The rest of the village will tell you the same, My Lord.”

“A scout of mine encountered a woman who claimed to hail from this village. A woman who bears a striking likeness to the famed Knight.” The Duke swept a hand towards the chapel. “Yet this village claims ignorance of such a person. I find that hard to believe.”

“And you think I could tell you otherwise?”

“I would think a Knight of Seiros would still hold the Goddess dear. If she is not in the village, this is the only place she would be.” Rufus lowered a hand to his sword. The soldiers at his side became far more alert. “Think twice before lying to me again. With the war’s aftermath, what is one more church to burn?”

Hearing enough, Catherine shouted above the wind. She would not allow her past to hurt the people she cared for. The Duke and his men whipped their heads towards her, jarred by her sudden appearance. She directed her horse closer, pulse thrumming with anxiety. Rufus stared at her silently. His expression tightened, shock changing into something analytical. Catherine clenched her jaw.

“You asked for me. Well, here I am.” She dropped from the saddle. The numerous eyes upon her were keenly felt, but none more so than the Duke. His stare was just as dark and unpleasant as she remembered. Catherine raised her head, unwilling to cower before him. Rufus appeared to take her measure.

“Ser Catherine.” His eyes settled upon her face before drifting downward. “I would say you look good for a corpse, but that’s not necessarily true. How the mighty have fallen.”

“I could say the same of you,” she replied. It was not a baseless insult. The Duke’s features were gaunt; his frame thin. Rufus had never touted a large build, but this was still a great departure from his appearance all those months ago. “I didn’t take you for the sort of man to threaten an old woman. Is this how you choose to spend your days now?”

“Only when they have the audacity to lie to me.” Rufus glanced balefully at the quiet nun. Bothild’s face was impassive.

“I told you no lies, My Lord. The name Catherine was never traded. I had little reason to think differently.” Her reply was impressively even for the situation she found herself in. The Duke didn’t appear pleased. Catherine took another step forward, earning his attention.

“Whatever business you have with me has nothing to do with this village. The people who live here were oblivious to who I am.” Her hands flexed nervously at her side. The riders were armed and she was without a blade. It would not take much to cut them down if Rufus desired it. Catherine’s eyes darted, looking for a solution. “Why are you here, Duke Blaiddyd? I doubt you came to wish me well.”

“Perhaps I wanted to assuage my curiosity. It’s not every day someone returns from the grave, but you always were difficult to be rid of.” He favored her with an appraising stare. “However, you’re correct. This isn’t a social call.”

“Then what do you want?" Catherine dug her feet into the snow, wandering near the porch. She could try to run, draw them away from the church, but she wouldn't get far. Her leg was firm beneath her, vastly improved from the hobbling impediment it had been. Yet a sprint through the snow was not the same as a walk through the woods. They would run her down with ease.

“I only want to talk. If you have the time to spare?” His words were phrased as a question, but she knew it to be a lie. Rufus would not suffer defiance. She exhaled steadily, chest tight. A gleam of silver caught her eye from above. The former Knight blinked before stealing a quick look at the chapel roof.

The clouds had draped the immediate area in a blanket of shadow, but she could make out the shine of steel. An arrowhead, poised to strike the Duke from his horse. _Shamir_. Catherine’s mind spun, weighing the options before her. The Duke’s death would not keep his soldiers from attacking. Yet even if they somehow fought them off, could they guarantee Bothild’s safety? And what of the children resting inside? It was too risky a gambit. Catherine shook her head in a subtle motion. Hopefully, Shamir would understand her reasons. She forced her eyes to meet the Duke’s.

“Fine. Let’s take this inside. I would rather not catch my death out here.”

“An interesting choice of words.” Rufus snorted but did not refute her. He dismounted, shaking out his coat. “Lead the way, _Ser._”

Catherine bristled at the title, very aware of the venom beneath. This conversation was bound to be unpleasant. The Duke’s irreverence for the Church was widely known, as was his dim view of her. While she had made peace with her past, the reminder was a knife to her heart. It grated that he could still affect her so easily. She would just need to avoid his needling, if possible.

As Catherine led him inside, she spared a moment to glance at the roof. Shamir would stay where she was. The woman was clever enough not to reveal herself. While she wished her partner was by her side, this was for the best. Catherine didn’t know what would become of this exchange. There could be any number of reasons for his sudden arrival. Yet no matter what they were, she refused to let him disturb the life she had built.

* * *

Catherine took her usual spot by the fire, observing her unexpected guest. Atop his horse and surrounded by soldiers, the Duke’s authority was unquestionable. Yet within the confines of the chapel, Rufus appeared a man diminished. There was an odd fragility to him, as if a stiff breeze might knock him down. This close, his sallow complexion was blatant. The war had taken much from him it seemed, and he wore the loss like a mourning veil.

Curiously, a sword lay at his hip. His steps suggested unfamiliarity with its weight. She wondered why he bothered to wear it. The man was not a warrior; a common knowledge among the nobility. It could have been a poor attempt at intimidation. But if that were true, why would he not bring his guards? The Duke’s actions were puzzling, as was his presence here. She watched as the man’s brow slanted with presumed disapproval.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding. How quaint.” He swept the chapel critically. “Of all the places you could have gone, and I find you here in this backwater hovel.”

“It’s far enough from the Empire. That’s all I cared for at the time. The people here respect hard work, and ask few questions.” Her words were terse, spoken will hostile affect. Catherine would not feign pleasure for his benefit. Rufus raised a fair brow.

“And what sort of work do they have you doing?”

“I’m apprenticing under the local smith.” She clenched her teeth as the man pealed with laughter. “I take it you find that amusing.”

“A daughter of Charon reduced to forging the same ore her family made their wealth in. There’s a good bit of irony there.” He flattened his waistcoat, the folds rumpled from mirth. The Duke offered a pitying stare. “I wonder what your father would think of this. Lord Priam always did like to brag about you. How you were _destined_ for greatness.”

“Kindly do not bring my father into this.” Catherine bared her teeth. She gripped the arms of her chair, incensed. Rufus forced aside his levity. He gave no word of apology, but he did tip his head.

“I suppose it’s low of me to stir old wounds. Contrary to what you may think, I am interested in how you’ve fared. Truthfully, I’m surprised you didn’t seek asylum within Charon.”

“Charon belongs to the Empire. My sister knelt for the Emperor after Fhirdiad fell.” Catherine crossed her arms. “I doubt that escaped your notice. But perhaps it did. Rumor has it you’ve had your head buried in the sand these past few months.”

“I didn't say I was oblivious. I only professed surprise." The Duke glowered in his usual disdainful manner. “Then again, I never expected to hear of your survival. The funeral Charon held was a grand affair. Your family seemed content with the corpse they were given.”

“The body was probably more ash than anything. I imagine Thunderbrand’s proximity to it made them think it was me.” She shrugged, not inclined to reveal the truth. Catherine owed him nothing. “It’s worked out in my favor, whatever the case.”

“That happens more often than not. You are a natural at avoiding culpability.” Rufus took a seat, his spine stiff. He settled into the chair with visible reluctance. “However, I am curious how you escaped. The Emperor is not known for leaving loose ends.”

“General Eisner maimed me. As far as she knew, I was a step from death’s door and about to be consumed by fire.” The former Knight clutched her knee, unsettled by the memory. She inhaled, forcing herself to calm. Catherine did not want the Duke to see her weakness. “I… managed to crawl away. The rest is a blur. It was luck than anything that allowed me to live.”

“Whether attributed to fortune or the Goddess’ favor, you were saved nonetheless. The rest of the Church cannot claim the same.” The man’s tone was cutting. Yet she got the distinct impression he did not begrudge her survival. Catherine eyed him warily.

“No. They can’t.” She sat straighter in her chair. “I’ve sated your curiosity, now tell me how you found me. Was it Baron Friuch?”

“He failed to recognize you, but Friuch was amenable to give the name you used. Honestly, did you think no one would find ‘Cassandra’ peculiar? It’s so uniquely Charon in origin.” Rufus scoffed. He pressed a finger to his temple. “My captain was there by happenstance, but she knew your face. You also had the gall to use a horse from my stable. Sloppy work.”

“I didn’t think I would be confronted by your soldiers. But neither did I believe you inclined to seek me out.” Catherine stared at him directly, not bothering to hide her ire. “Have you finally come for justice? Am I to beg your forgiveness at last?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know you think poorly of me, but I wouldn’t approach you over a decade old grievance.”

“Then why are you here?”

The Duke's gaze flitted from her to the crackling fire. He stared into the flames.

"When I heard of Fhirdiad's fall, horror was not at the fore of my thoughts. The Archbishop was unhinged; it was inevitable something heinous would result from her desperation. I wept for the tragedy of it all." He hesitated, the apple of his throat convulsing. "But sorrow was not all I felt. Determination ignited within me. The Emperor may have won the war against the Church, but the Kingdom still lives.”

“You’re speaking nonsense. The Kingdom died with Dimitri. All the Lords knew his death meant the end.” Catherine scowled at the man, eyes narrowed with incredulity.

“The Kingdom was established by Loog, my ancestor. So long as his blood lives on, the spirit of Faerghus will never die.” The Duke’s chest rose. Dark blue eyes flashed with conviction. “The Emperor believes us to be cowed, but we will never bow to her. This land is not hers to claim. We will take back what she stole.”

“You’re mad. You can’t possibly be thinking of opposing the Empire.” She drew back, unease brewing in her stomach. Rufus was infamously petty, but this was beyond the pale. Yet the Duke’s expression was grave. “The moment you act against her, the Emperor will crush you. Dimitri couldn’t stop her. Lady Rhea… Even she stood no chance.”

"They didn't have the knowledge that I do, nor the restraint." He raised his head proudly. "They allowed emotion to cloud their judgment. I will not fall into the same mistakes.”

“You’re starting a pointless conflict. What few allies you’ve gathered can’t possibly match the Imperial army. The combined might of Leicester and Faerghus were nothing more than an inconvenience for Edelgard.”

“It will be an uphill battle. I’m quite aware of that,” Rufus replied. His voice slipped a register, becoming conversational. “I need all the assistance I can get. Which is why I have come to ask for your help, in the name of your rightful King.”

“Rightful? That’s a laugh. Faerghus barely tolerated your regency.” Catherine did not bother to muffle her amusement. She scratched her jaw, chuckling. “You may be the first son of House Blaiddyd, but you’re a shadow of your brother. No one will fight under your banner; not without a crest.”

“I’m very aware of this. But the King I speak of is not I, but another.”

Catherine froze, shock flooding her breast.

“Is Dimitri…?”

“No. My nephew is in the Goddess’ embrace.” Something crossed the man’s face; a mixed agony of grief and regret. It fled as quickly as it appeared. “However, the crest of my House lives on. The Goddess has seen fit to give us a second chance, and I will not squander it in fear of the Emperor.”

“How is that possible?”

“My son,” the Duke spoke with pride. “The major crest of Blaiddyd flows through his veins. The Goddess blessed him thus, and so he shall sit the throne as King. It is written in the stars.”

“You lie,” Catherine croaked hoarsely. She searched his face, looking for any trace of falsehood. However, she found none. “I don’t understand. The Goddess chose Her side the day Lady Rhea died. Why would She undo all of that now?”

“Perhaps it is all within Her plan. I don’t claim to know the Goddess’ will, unlike the Archbishop.” The Duke spared a sneer at the mention. “The Western Church was right, in the end. One woman should not have held the influence she had. If it weren’t for her, Dimitri would still be alive.”

“_Bite your tongue.” _Catherine gnashed her teeth and rose. Her nails sliced into her palms. “Lady Rhea’s wisdom was without equal. She did not _order _your nephew to his death. From the moment Dimitri took the field, he knew what was in store for him. He faced the end with dignity.”

“You defend her so passionately. Yet you waste your days in isolation rather than seek vengeance.” Rufus offered her a measure glance. “Why is that, I wonder?”

“Even if I had the resources, I do not have the power.”_ Nor the desire. _The woman deflated, anger draining. “I am not as I was. Thunderbrand is no longer in my possession and my body is crippled. The meat of my leg rotted, leaving me lame.”

“So you’ll let the Archbishop’s murderer go without justice?”

“If that’s the choice I’m left with, then yes.” She fell back into her chair. Exhaustion draped over her frame. “Why does it matter to you? The Emperor was gracious enough to let you keep Itha. I would have thought her reforms would please you.”

“And why would you think that?”

“You were born without a crest,” Catherine commented simply. “If you had, the throne would have been yours. Now, Edelgard is doing away with the reliance on those favored by the Goddess. Surely you would see that as a worthy cause.”

“I can recognize the Emperor’s intent as well-meaning,” Rufus began. “But while they may suit Adrestia or Leicester, they will never work in Faerghus. Already, unrest brews within each major territory. She’s scrambling to control the Lords, but their fear of her is all that leashes them.”

The Duke grasped the hilt of his sword. His chin was raised.

“Crests are necessary to keep control. It’s an irrevocable truth of our society. In my youth, I may have seen it as unfair, but now I know better. Without them, this land would fall to chaos. The common cannot govern themselves, and it is their trust in the blessed that gird their hearts. The Emperor pushes too hard, too fast. Only misery lies in the world she seeks. The Kingdom nobility who remain will recognize that.”

“And you believe they will back you to protect tradition?”

“They will back a King who is chosen by the Goddess.” Rufus’ cheeks rippled. His jaw flexed nervously. “And if they don’t, I have other allies to call upon. I’m hoping you will be one of them.”

“I can’t fight for you. I thought I already made that clear.” Catherine frowned. “What use could I possibly have?”

“Your name, for one. Your sister may be Lord, but she is not popular. The people resent that she bent the knee for Edelgard.” The Duke gestured towards her. “Many still weep for you and your father. If they knew you lived, it would be a simple matter to press your claim.

The information was not surprising. Charon was fiercely traditional and resistant to change. She had been well-loved in her time, if only because of her father’s renown. Rooting the Empire from Charon would be difficult, but less so with its lords supporting her. She hesitated, unsure of what to think.

“That may be true, but I’m in no position to try for my ancestral seat. The Emperor will not simply let me take it,” Catherine hedged.

“Which is why we will act beneath her notice. If all goes as planned, Faerghus will stand unified against her once more.” Satisfaction carved itself across Rufus’ features. “The time has come for us to show the Empire our might. In the name of our fallen King.”

“I don’t know if I can support this.” She tore her eyes from his and stared hard into her lap. “What you’re suggesting would throw all of us into another war. Is a throne worth the cost of peace?"

“Why else would my son be blessed with this gift? This is by divine decree; it must be so.” The Duke’s expression contorted into something ugly and pained. “Do not tell me you have lost your courage. Think of what the Emperor has cost us.”

“I don’t want to spark a needless war. I’ve seen the natural end of the last, and I want no part of another.” Catherine rubbed her eyes. “I will never forget what the Emperor did, nor who she killed. Yet raising a flag in the name of revenge is foolhardy.”

“It is not mere retaliation. It is reclaiming what is ours.”

“Call it what you will. I want no part of this.”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Have you lost all sense of duty?” The man’s stare hardened. “If you won’t act in Dimitri’s memory, what of your Lady? Or were your vows merely lip-service?”

“Of course not!” The former knight flinched.

“Then fight, Ser Catherine. Avenge the woman you claimed to care for.” The Duke stood and swept his cloak behind him. His stare was beseeching. “Recover your birthright and seek justice on behalf of Lady Rhea. You know this is what she would want.”

“Is that why you’re doing this?” She closed her eyes, unwilling to look at him. Hearing the Lady’s name gutted her; a reminder of her failure. Suddenly, it felt fresh as it did when she crawled along burning stones. The growth she had attained seemed distant, beyond her reach. Catherine’s heart felt like it was splitting in twain. “Do you think liberating Faerghus will lay his spirit to rest?”

“I cannot know for certain. Dimitri… I know I failed him, regardless of the Archbishop’s influence.” She heard him sigh. “And when I face Lambert again, I will beg his forgiveness. Yet now is not the time for the dead. We must think of the living. This land will rot within the Emperor’s hands. It is our duty to set Faerghus free.”

Catherine kept her silence. She wanted to deny him — to rail at the man for his audacity — but there was truth in his plea. The Emperor knew very little of Kingdom concerns. Her ignorance could mean the people’s suffering, despite the intent behind her reforms. There were many who would rather see the Emperor buried than tolerate her rule. It was only their dread of her that stayed their hands. A proper claimant, Goddess touched and crest-blooded, would be enough to inspire a rebellion. Yet Catherine couldn’t say she was thrilled by the prospect.

It would mean the return of her title. Perchance, a way for her to avenge Lady Rhea as well. But the fervor that she expected to feel never came. The notion was toothless, sitting cold in her chest. She did not care for the Emperor, far from it, but there would be turmoil upon her death. All of Faerghus would feel that chaos. Could she abide this, if it meant justice would be served? If Lady Rhea had lived, what would she want? The former Knight blinked dimly as Rufus took his leave.

"I'll give you a chance to think over my proposal. In a week’s time, I’ll come back for your answer.”

Catherine watched as his figure was obscured by the blinding white of winter. She bent her head, fingers reaching into the tangle of her hair. A chill passed across her nape and settled into her bones. It did not leave, even as the fire roared at her feet. For an undefined length of time, she stayed as she was; inert.

Then, she stood shakily and headed out the rear door. The air in her chest felt hot, searing her lungs; just like that night in Fhirdiad. Catherine stumbled into the open, swallowing the biting cold winds. A mighty chill lashed her cheeks and sapped the heat from her palms. Still, it wasn’t enough to abate the fire in her veins.

* * *

Catherine could not say how long she wandered or how far. One moment she was racing through the snow, and the next she was sitting by a stream. The water was splintered with ice, the top layer not quite frozen in its entirety. There was a frantic rhythm to its form; crystalline structure ceding to nature’s strength. The former Knight was not prone to poetic musings, but she could recognize a bit of irony there. She too could not escape the will of something greater than herself.

Catherine stared into the breaks and counted the breaths she took. By the hundredth, the sky was dim and she was forced to squint past the darkness. A crunch of snow disturbed the quiet. She did not need to look up to know who it would be. Only Shamir walked with such an even gait. Catherine heard her stop somewhere near her left flank. She said nothing, but neither did her partner. Yet she could feel the Dagdan woman’s eyes. She rubbed her neck reflexively.

“You should go back. I would hate for you to fall ill.” As if hearing her words, the woods shook with a sharp breeze. Catherine heard Shamir shift uncomfortably. “Go on. I won’t be long.”

“Not until you tell me what he wanted.” The other woman’s voice was low. She wanted to name the emotion heard within as anxiety, but that didn’t seem quite right. “What did he ask of you?”

“How do you know he asked me anything? Maybe he just wanted to wish me well.”

“Don’t do this, Catherine.”

The former Knight sobered. There was a strain within Shamir’s words that she was unfamiliar with. Catherine chanced a look in her partner’s direction. The Dagdan woman’s face was pale, eyes thin at the corners. The set of her mouth was tight.

“What did he say?” Shamir insisted. Catherine exhaled heavily. Her lungs ached with the effort.

“The Duke is planning to rout the Empire from Faerghus. He’s gathering allies, or attempting to.” She allowed her shoulders to fall and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Supposedly, his son holds the major crest of Blaiddyd. Rufus seems to think this is by divine ordinance. He wants to start a war and crown the boy King.”

“He’s an idiot. He can’t possibly combat the Empire without an army.”

“Rufus seemed pretty confident. He’s willing to stake his life on it, at the very least. His child’s too.” Catherine plucked at her leather necklace as she mulled over the conversation. Whether desperation or grief, the Duke had been serious. He wasn’t a man disposed to drink nor did he appear unhinged. “I had a feeling he wasn’t telling me everything. But I suppose that’s natural. He wants to ensure my help first.”

“I don’t see how that lunacy has anything to do with you.” Shamir’s lips pursed. “If he wants to toss himself into the Empire’s sights, let him. He can die on his own terms.”

“I thought the same. Yet…” Catherine stilled as the Duke’s declaration echoed in her mind. “He offered me Charon. If I accept and join his cause, I would be instated as Lord.”

“False promises. He can’t guarantee that.”

“I’m told my sister’s governance has not been widely received. It would take very little convincing for the bannermen to support my claim. If it can be done beneath the Empire’s nose, the shift of power would be a boon for the Duke.”

“And is that so tempting?" Shamir bristled. "Don't tell me you're persuaded by this."

“I care not for the title. I know very well it would be more to his advantage than mine. The wealth and backing of my House would legitimize his son in the eyes of many.”

“Then are we still talking about this? Whatever foolish rebellion he’s trying to stir has nothing to do with us.” Anger colored the Dagdan woman’s words. Her voice was strained, ripping from her throat. The former Knight looked up, taking in her partner’s features. Violet eyes were bright with more than just the reflection of ice. “Catherine, tell me you’ll deny him.”

Shamir’s plea struck her deeply. Catherine stared at her as pain bloomed beneath her breast. She wanted to obey. The Kingdom was long dead, along with her birthright. She cared nothing for House Blaiddyd, nor did she owe anything to its remaining members. More than anything, Catherine wanted to stay here with her partner.

_I am the happiest I have ever been._ She trailed her gaze over the Dagdan woman. Shamir, who was lovely even in her rage and heartrendingly beautiful in her sadness. Catherine loved everything she was. Shamir, the woman who tore her from death and mended wounds she refused to acknowledge existed. So fierce and strong. So independent and free. It would be easy to embrace her and forget the world. They had bled enough for this land. Surely…

Yet another came to mind. The Lady who she knelt for and promised to protect. The one she failed and allowed to die at the Emperor’s hand. Lady Rhea, who she owed her life before Shamir had touched her heart. It had been her who brought them together. _Do I not owe her this fragile happiness we __hold__?_

It had been Lady Rhea’s mercy that saved them. Her wisdom that guided them. Her misery that heralded the end. Her death that Catherine could not prevent. A great tragedy, not just for those who had loved her, but for all the people of Fόdlan. The world was poorer for her loss, and her murderer would be hailed as a hero. That was the greatest injustice of all. The Lady deserved more than to be remembered as a monster.

Shamir seemed to read these thoughts on her face. The Dagdan woman stiffened, bitterness crossing her features. Then, she stalked into the trees. Catherine did not call after her. She stayed beside the stream until Shamir’s steps faded into nothing. The key in her pocket jangled as she crossed her legs. Suddenly, its presence felt mocking; leaden with every dashed hope.

* * *

That night, Catherine chose to sleep in the stable. She could not face her partner. Shamir desired an answer she could not give and it would be cruel of her to give hope. Until she reached a conclusion, she would give the Dagdan woman space. Saloma did not seem to mind her impromptu roommate. Perhaps the horse could sense her inner turmoil. Catherine was oddly soothed by the notion, drifting to sleep atop a pile of hay. Yet she awoke soon after, disturbed by dreams of fire and draconic wails.

Over and over, this pattern kept. When the morning came finally, she was exhausted from the terrors. The last one stayed with her with unsettling realism. For the first time, she found herself in Culann instead of Fhirdiad. She was with Shamir, resting within a home they made for themselves. But an echo of the past intruded and Catherine heard the animalistic roars of her liege. _Snarling, enraged, but deeply tormented._ The embodiment of everything Lady Rhea had become. In the dream, her happiness unraveled; the fabric stained with guilt.

Tired and stressed, she arose and wandered the woods aimlessly. Then, without a conscious effort, Catherine found herself in front of Weyland’s cabin. She hesitated at his door. Why had she come? What words of comfort did she expect from him? It would be wiser to seek council from Bothild.

But she did not share the same kinship with the nun as with Weyland. She would not understand her struggle. Catherine rapped her knuckles against the wood. The man answered upon the fifth strike. Bushy brows rose with astonishment.

“A bit early to be banging down my door. The sun hasn’t crested the trees yet.” Weyland blinked at her. His mouth slanted. “You look awful. Did you even sleep?”

"I tried to; didn't quite manage it." Catherine mustered a weak smile. “I hope you don't mind, but I wanted to speak with you."

“Hmph. And this couldn’t wait until later?”

“I wish it could. But I'm a bit pressed for time." She ran a distracted hand through her hair. "Don't worry, it's not about work or what we talked about yesterday. It’s a personal matter.”

The smith squinted at her, weighing the statement. After a time, he grunted moodily and stepped away from the threshold. He jerked his head.

“I suppose it’s no trouble. Keep in mind that I’m not one for advice. I’ll say what I can, but don’t expect a revelation.” The man gesture for her to follow as he moved inside. “If it’s lady troubles, I can’t help much. I barely remember what I did that earned me a wife.”

“It’s not that.” Catherine entered his home. To her surprise, the cabin looked more welcoming than before. The furniture was arranged in a less sporadic format, as was the various knickknacks he owned. The bare floor was now covered with a thick rug and the mound of blankets had been traded for a proper bed. The man shrugged as he noticed her scrutiny.

“I was tired of waking with a crick in my spine,” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. The smith plopped into a nearby chair, yet another fresh addition. He swept his hand out pointedly. “Go on, then. What did you want to talk about?”

Catherine leaned against the cabin wall, tapping her heel anxiously. She folded her hands beneath her arms, unsure of where to begin.

“When you lost your son, did you feel the need to search for his killer?” She looked at his face, measuring the man’s reaction. Weyland frowned but said nothing. “If you had the opportunity to seek justice, what would you do?”

“You’re asking if I would seek revenge.” He weighed the question, brow furrowing. “I don’t know who they are. I have my suspicions, but nothing solid.”

“But if you did know, what would you do?” Catherine pressed.

“That’s not an easy thing to answer.” Large fingers twisted thoughtfully in the man’s mustache. The coal hue of his eyes darkened. “If I had the means… I would be tempted. Who wouldn’t? It’s not in our nature to forget nor forgive.”

“Then you would pursue vengeance.”

“Nay, I think not.” The answer was unexpected as was his easy answer. Catherine tilted her head in confusion. The smith heaved a labored sigh. “When I heard what happened, I considered it. I wanted to storm the gates of Garreg Mach and demand an audience with the Archbishop. I wanted to bash each Knight with my hammer until they told me who cut him down. Foolish, malicious thoughts…”

He looked away from her, staring hard at his cluttered mantle.

“I knew I didn’t have the strength to try. What was I but a helpless smith from a place no one cared for? So I wallowed in my misery, and nursed my hatred until it was a festering wound.” Weyland snorted as he reminisced. “I was a bear to deal with. Yelled at any who crossed me and drank through my coin. The others tolerated my rages, but not for long.”

“Is that why you moved out here?” Catherine asked.

“Part of it, aye. But a greater part was sick of their sympathy.” Weyland paused. He glanced at her, inquiry plain. “You’re not the sort to ask frivolous questions. What inspired this?”

“My past has come to haunt me. It's nothing that should concern you.” Catherine attempted to chuckle but the sound was sharp. The smith didn’t seem convinced.

“Maybe, but I can tell it’s eating you. Whatever it might be, you shouldn’t let it sit like a stone.” He rolled his lanky frame before relaxing into his seat. “You might as well tell me. I’m sure I’ll be hearing it from the Sister anyway.”

“I didn’t realize you and Bothild had a camaraderie.” Catherine scowled.

“I wouldn’t say we’re friendly. But we have an understanding.” The smith sent her a pointed look. “Well?”

“Recently, someone presented me with an opportunity. A way to right a grievous wrong and potentially avenge someone I cared for." Her eyes fell to the rug, teeth grit. "However, it would mean leaving this life behind in favor of more bloodshed. I’m struggling with what I should choose.”

“You were wounded that deeply?”

“I thought so, yes.” Catherine spared a thought for the woman she had faithfully served. The burning ache in her soul was tempered, but it still existed. She would likely never be rid of it entirely. “After the war, I believed my reason for living was to correct that injustice. I thought it my duty to avenge all that had been lost. I yearned for it more than anything. My injury made me consider otherwise. Yet now, when I can finally sate that hunger, I falter.”

“Might be for the best.” Weyland scratched his chin, stare considering. “Better to lose yourself in ale than at the tip of a sword.”

“Did drowning your sorrows work for you?”

“That’s not what steadied me. Still, it did bring me momentary relief.” The man appeared to mull over something. He grimaced after a moment. “Led me into all sorts of trouble, but I couldn’t recognize that. One night, I found myself passed out in the church; pants around my ankles and vomit caked in my hair."

“I doubt the clergymen were amused by this.” Catherine scoffed, tension fading slightly. Weyland nodded tersely.

“The clergy already left at that point, and the Sister had just arrived in town. I never made it a habit to attend sermons, so that was our first proper meeting.” His lips creased wryly. “It wasn’t a good impression. She dragged me up by the ear and wiped me clean. I felt more babe than man, but the treatment was deserved. Of course, nosy as she is, the woman dared to ask what troubled me. I didn’t take kindly to this, but I humored her.”

“And what did she say?”

“The Sister called me a fool and then some." The man raised his pitch in an attempt to mimic the nun. "‘Hatred is a fool’s game. That’s why it’s played by the young and the simple.’ That’s what she said to me. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“That sounds like her.” The former Knight mustered a half-hearted smile. “She might even tell me the same if I ask.”

“Hmph, I would bet on that. I still don’t care for the Church, but she’s a good woman.” Weyland’s expression changed, hardening briefly. “I didn’t see the wisdom of those words, at the time. I ignored them and her, spending my days the same as ever. But in my weakest moments, I would think of what she said. One day, the truth struck me.”

“That you were a fool?”

“Aye,” He gave a short laugh. “But also how powerless my anger made me. There would be no justice within it. The person who cost me my son would not be held accountable. My pain was a private thing, known only to me. And I could choose to hold it and languish in my bitterness, or I could forgive.”

“You would forgive them? You can’t mean that.” Catherine blinked owlishly.

“I do. For myself and the memory of my son.” Weyland looked again at the mantle. The carved figures were as meticulously arranged as she remembered. The small dog was at the front, bearing with it the memories of the one who gave it shape. “Revenge isn’t for the dead. It’s for the living. I forgave because I am more than my rage. I needed to be, so my son could live on.”

“That’s fine for you, but that doesn’t work for everyone.” She thought of her vows as a Knight; broken and cast aside. Loathe as she was to admit it, the Duke’s criticism was not without merit. “I owe my life to the one I failed. It was my duty to protect them. Is it not also my duty to carry on their will? If nothing else, I owe them that much.”

“Duty to the dead is a lie people tell themselves. At its heart, it’s just another excuse for retaliation.” Weyland’s declaration was blunt, but not unkind. His expression softened. It was an odd, but welcome change to his severe countenance. “You speak of duty, but I think of it differently. As I see it, it’s the duty of the living to carry on their memories.”

“I…” Catherine swallowed. She did not know how to define the emotion she experienced then. However, it felt light and free; unlike the burdensome weight of responsibility. “I would like to believe that too.”

“So what’s keeping you?”

It was a compelling question; one Catherine thought she did not have an answer for. Yet as she looked within, she saw it was only fear keeping her chained. Her eyes fell upon the carvings. Just like Weyland, a personal truth needed to be found. The choice she made needed to be of her own will, not by Rufus’ demand or the memory of Lady Rhea. Obligation would not be the ruin of her.

When night had fallen and their work was done, Catherine returned to the place she called home. The hour was late and few lights flickered within the chapel walls. She crept into the room she shared with her partner. The Dagdan woman was asleep, or feigning to be in any event. Her back was turned, the sheet pulled up to her neck. Catherine walked around the bed and drank in Shamir’s face. Her brow was marred with tension.

Contrite, the taller woman brushed her hair away from her face. She cupped her partner’s cheek, wishing she could soothe her worry away. Catherine pulled back as Shamir stirred, murmuring something undefined. She twisted in the sheets but did not wake. Relieved, Catherine stepped aside and headed for the trunk.

Many of their personal effects lay there, stowed away from curious eyes and tiny fingers. The children usually kept a safe distance from their room, but it never hurt to be safe. She imagined Connla would have a plethora of questions if he found the sword and armor beneath. Catherine reached inside and pulled up the latter. Her thumb slid over the engraved crest of Seiros. For a thousand years, this symbol had meant peace. It would mean something entirely different now.

She shook her head and dropped the armor. Next, her hands plucked the sword from the trunk. There was no cause to use it in Itha, but if she heeded the Duke’s call that would change. Charon respected strength, and theirs was a house of warriors. She may be called to bear Thunderbrand once more. Could she, if needed? Rufus might rely on her name alone, but it would not be strange if he ordered her to take up arms. A relic was a powerful threat, no matter the condition of its wielder.

Catherine wrinkled her nose in disgust. She did not relish the thought of being used in such a way. And she was not so simple-minded to think their arrangement would be as equals. The Duke would use her for his own ends. Just a few months ago, she might have been thrilled by the chance regardless. Catherine would have endured any price if it meant Edelgard would finally be punished for her crimes. She felt nothing at present, neither joy nor anticipation.

Skillfully, she flipped the sword in her hands, testing its weight. Then, Catherine placed it on the floor. She dug deeper in the trunk, searching. Her hand glanced against something edged. The bundle was malformed, but light-weight. She grasped it carefully before laying it beside the blade. As she looked at the two objects, the questions she faced at Weyland’s resurfaced.

_Which meant more, in the end; duty to the living or the dead?_

Two possibilities were open to her. The first, a life dedicated to Lady Rhea’s retribution. She could help the remaining Lord of Blaiddyd to reclaim the throne and take up the mantle she was born for. It would be short-lived in all likelihood. A rebellion in the name of a child who couldn't possibly understand the cost, for the sake of a dead King, and the pride of a man who would never be King. For the freedom of people who did not seem shackled. If she chose that path, it would be in selfishness. None of those things would bring her closure. None would bring the Lady back to them. Hatred would lead her to a bloody end, and nothing else.

Catherine stared at the wrapped bundle. Beneath the cloth lay the shattered remains of something well-loved. She didn’t know the extent of its past, but she knew it meant a great deal to her partner. Perhaps it could no longer be a blade. But that didn't mean it couldn't be better.

_And I know plenty about that._ Catherine clasped the bundle tight. She had been the same; ruined for war and torn from her purpose. Yet not everything needed to be a blade, and metal could be used to build rather than destroy. She stole another look at Shamir. Then, Catherine tucked the sword away and locked the trunk. It closed, the click beneath her fingers heralding resolution.

What need did she have for hatred when love tasted far sweeter?

**Next Chapter: Finish**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The pieces are finally in place for the grand finale! I hope you guys are excited. For now, this chapter was really fun to write. Rufus is a character we know the bare minimum about, but I think there's a ton of potential there. Dimitri's talking about how his family will live on really piqued my interest, and I know many of you likely have your own headcanons about why, but I went this route with it. I would love to know what you guys think! Cathmir's story might be concluding (for now) but Rufus' rebellion is something I'm keen on depicting in my next big fic. I'm sure our lovely Emperor is gonna have some thoughts. Next time, the big conclusion! Thank you all for reading <3 - AdraCat


	20. Finish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a long journey and the start of another.  
The past bows to the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here it is. The end. I dedicate this one to all of you who took a chance on this story. And most of all, to my faithful editor and friend, johnxfire <3

The moment she heard the thunder of hooves, Shamir knew their fragile peace was at an end. No matter who led the charge — Empire or Church remnant — everything would change. Shamefully, she was stymied by shock; unable to move from her position by the fire. Her guard was broken, fangs blunted by months of inaction. She hadn’t expected to be found so suddenly. And it was for them, she knew. There could be no others they sought.

Rage replaced her momentary dread. Whatever vendetta spurred these men, she would not allow herself to be taken. Shamir would die before they ever touched Catherine. She didn’t much care for who they were or what they wanted. All that mattered was them leaving by word or blood. So as Bothild volunteered herself as a distraction, Shamir hid in wait.

A tendril of disquiet curled in her throat. She had not bothered to practice her marksmanship here. There was no chance for such things when her days were preoccupied with healing rather than killing. However, she knew her skill well. Her bow still sat in her hands with comfortable ease, and her hands were swift as she nocked an arrow. If it came to it, Shamir could fell countless in a blink. The long days in the north had not taken this from her. Yet her confidence waned as her gaze rested atop Rufus Blaiddyd.

There was no mistaking him. Cocksure and gilded in silver; frost draping the blue of his raiment. Before, he had been just another unimpressive lord amid many. But now he represented danger, and that brought distinction to his features. She didn’t understand why he, of all the relics of the Kingdom, sought them. So far, the man had not expressed explicit hostility. He appeared sedate as he questioned the nun, but there was a keenness to his posture she did not care for. Shamir watched his lips and rankled as they twisted around a familiar name. _Catherine. He’s come for Catherine._

She felt a hot rush of anger and fright. Instinctively, Shamir had aimed for his head. Her fingers pulled at the string, pulse throbbing at the juncture between. It would be so easy. His skull would crumple like an apple, splitting beneath her arrow. His riders could not possibly respond fast enough to stop her assault. Title or no, a man was nothing more than a collection of blood and bone. She could end it swiftly. With one death, she could protect her lover from whatever the Duke had planned.

However, Catherine intervened. The woman burst from the trees with a yell, and Shamir’s concentration faltered. Her grip loosened and the string pulled in defiance. She observed as they spoke, breathless in her terror. But the man did not command his riders to attack. He listened to the woman intently, and the dread in Shamir’s heart strengthened. Catherine, oblivious and unsettled, could not read the purpose in his expression. However, Shamir did. She had been wrong. The Duke did not desire her partner’s death. He wanted something far worse.

She pulled her bow again, desperate to kill this man who would end the dream they had been living. She was denied once more by the terse shake of her partner’s head. Shamir wanted to deny her. Yet she knew it was too late. If she shot him now, the riders would cut Catherine down. The opportunity had passed and she was left with nothing. A pained exhale escaped her as she released her grip on the string. Shamir’s arms twinged and the pain matched the sharp anxiety crawling in her ribs.

And as she waited several awful possibilities flitted through her head. The past that bound them was a thing of contention. Shamir doubted the Duke came here to put that to rest. Men in power never forgot a slight. Just as she decided to creep inside, the Duke reappeared. He leapt atop his horse and directed his men into the trees. They disappeared into the frosted wood without a backward glance. Shamir burned to fire a parting shot into the nobleman’s skull. Her fingers ached with the denial of that desire.

The ache deepened when she saw Catherine’s face. Agony lay in the hollow of her cheeks; resignation in the clench of her fists. Her words were spoken with uncharacteristic weight. And what she spoke of froze the blood in Shamir’s veins. _Rebellion._ So this was the Duke’s aim. She should have killed him the moment Catherine appeared.

_ He’ll drag her to the grave. _Copper flooded her mouth, teeth gouging flesh. _והיא תלך בשמחה, הכל לזכר אותה אישה._

She didn’t need to hear it spoken aloud. Catherine didn’t have to say anything. She could feel it in the air between them. It was etched in the grief the former Knight carried; gleaned from the guilt she could not conceal. _Say you’ll stay, Catherine._ _Say you won’t entertain this madness_. Yet all her partner offered was a mournful look.

_I can’t_, her eyes seemed to express. Shamir stilled. Unpleasantly, she was reminded of the moment when she begged her partner to leave the Church. And just like then, Catherine spurned her plea. Shamir turned and fled into the trees, unable to stomach it. Her eyes stung from the wind and cold. Something lodged in her throat and kept. She had no one to blame but herself. From the beginning, she knew her partner’s ties to this land were stronger than her own. It was why the woman insisted they remain. Catherine would face death for the sake of the woman she still held dear. Always for her.

_She won’t stay for me. _The winter air burned her lungs and wracked her frame with lurching shivers. It strangled each breath and writhed in her chest like a living thing. She refused to name this churning pain as heartbreak. _אם גורלי הוא לקבור אותך, כך יהיה._Perhaps this was always how it was meant to end.

That night, her sleep was fitful. Each dream was full of discordant images and a fear that would not leave. Moments of lucidity were brief and bitter. She disdained the coming days and feared the dawn. The future was a certain thing full of ugliness. It was better to lose herself in dreams than witness the reality of Catherine’s choice.

The day after the Duke left was quiet and slow. Shamir forced herself not to think of what might come next. Those thoughts only elicited ire and misery. Bothild appeared wise to her mood and carefully said nothing of the recent events. They worked in silence, returning to the chapel in the same melancholic stillness. Shamir retired early, the nun’s knowing stare heavy upon her. She knew the woman wanted to soothe, but she had no patience for reassurance. The words would only ring hollow.

In the middle of the night, Shamir awoke to a gentle caress. She thought it to be the glide of air across her cheek, but it was a harder touch than a draft could muster. Dimly, she recognized the calloused plane of Catherine’s palm. Shamir stiffened and the hand retreated. She opened her eyes, reluctant and weary.

Catherine held herself aloft the bedding, not yet settling beneath. There was a shadow across her eyes, concealing the bulk of her expression. Yet Shamir could still see the hard line of her mouth. Catherine’s lips parted, as if poised to say something. It seemed a decision had finally been made. Suddenly, Shamir could not bear to hear it. She clutched at her partner’s shirt, nails biting into the fabric. Her grip was tremulous.

She did not want to hear the confirmation of her fears. She did not want to see solemn regret within her lover’s eyes. Most of all, she did want to lose this woman she had strained so hard to keep. _One more night_, she thought in desperation. And one more night she would have. Shamir pulled Catherine close. She kissed her fiercely, ignoring the startled jolt she received. Catherine remained unresponsive, head tilting back.

“Shamir… We need to—”

“I don’t care.” The Dagdan woman strengthened her hold. “Whatever choice you made, I don’t want to hear it.”

She raked her nails across Catherine's jugular. Her partner flinched but did not retreat. Shamir continued, voice lowering to a rasp.

“Give me this. _Please._”

Catherine swallowed, and Shamir could feel the bob of her throat beneath her fingers.

“Okay… Okay.” Her partner bent, and the kiss she gave felt unbearably apologetic. “Promise me we’ll talk tomorrow.”

Shamir said nothing. She knew the nature of time. It would creep forward without heed, and her attempts to halt its progression would be futile. Yet all she desired was one last memory – an untarnished embrace she could hold long after Catherine was gone. As they molded together, there was a caution to Catherine’s movements that hadn’t been there before. Her ire flared and she clawed at her lover in response. But the woman’s touch would not hasten and her kisses remained soft.

Eventually, Shamir let go of her anger. Sadness flooded her deepest crevices and changed the nature of her need. It was painful to feel the reverence within Catherine's embrace. She didn’t understand it; couldn’t, with everything she knew to come. _Stop touching me as if you might stay, she_ yearned to say. But she didn’t, and slowly reciprocated each gentle stroke.

Their encounters until now had been hurried affairs; each, a celebration of time no longer wasted. This felt like the opposite. Shamir was hesitant to think of the implications. She buried her face into her partner’s skin, fingers entwined within long strands. She pulled and pulled, until all the could see was Catherine.

And if there was a desperation beneath the desire, Shamir never gave it a voice. And if fear quickened her pulse and deepened her color, Catherine assuredly mistook it for passion. However, an awareness she didn’t care to acknowledge moved beneath her skin. It slithered like ice over the scarred portions of her heart. She clutched at the planes of Catherine’s back, agonized in her pleasure. Her nails dug into the grooves of muscle and bone. When the end came, it was fast and abrupt. Yet, instead of relief, Shamir cried out in something that might have been sorrow.

After, she shook without end. She heard her partner whisper something, but it was lost to the dark. Catherine’s hands rubbed her side in an attempt at comfort. Shamir wanted to push her lover away, but the other woman was adamant. Whispered apologies slid past her ear as Catherine held her close.

Shamir shied from the words, but could not stop herself from clinging to her partner's frame. The warmth of her body was familiar; solid and sure, slick with sweat and painful love. She struggled against the comfort she felt, knowing it to be a lie. Yet as exhaustion dragged her into slumber, she allowed herself the deceit of hope. When the dawn came, it vanished — crumbling to dust like every impossible dream.

* * *

Shamir never thought she would be felled by something as intangible as love. Before Catherine. Before Rhea. Before Fόdlan. She had viewed herself as pragmatic. Love could be pleasant, enjoyable in its way, but it wasn’t a necessity. Solomon’s death brought its share of pain, but she had moved forward. As he would have wanted. As she knew to be logical and right. The end of love would not mean the end of her.

Then there was Catherine, and she was everything Shamir should have despised. Arrogant, prideful, and rash. Noble, not in manner, but so thoroughly in upbringing and thought. Yet for all her failings, Catherine had been the first to extend a hand. Her trust was explicit, her affection genuine. Shamir, ever bereft in this land of snakes and shadows, clung to her without reserve. For many years, Catherine was the only solace she had. Was it wrong of her to desire reciprocation? Was it pointless to expect anything of a woman long committed to something greater?

Life in Dagda had been transient; ever flowing onward. Garreg Mach was no better. She allowed herself to be collared and muted. She thought nothing of it so long as the coin continued to flow. Not a home, but a place to exist for lack of better. And it was here, for Catherine, where she finally considered setting roots. Complacent in her happiness, Shamir did not guard herself from loss. Foolish in her joy, Shamir thought Catherine felt the same. She had suffered heartbreak once and survived to love again. If it came to it, she knew recovery would not be impossible. Her partner’s death would not ruin her so completely, but it would be a greater pain than she had ever known.

She breathed, holding the sharp chill within. The crisp bite was steadying. She exhaled at length, sigh muffled by the trickle of water. Her feet were pointed toward the stream’s mouth. The flow was serene, and in the ebb she found kinship. Shamir would move forward, as was her way. Yet she did not desire a world where it was necessary._ A world without Catherine..._ Shamir shook beneath the wind. The crunch of ice underfoot broke the stillness.

“We always seem to meet by water.” Catherine’s voice hovered near her shoulder. Her words carried a hint of amusement, but there was something else underneath. “Funny bit of coincidence there. I’m not one for poetry, but if I were, maybe I could string something together for you.”

Shamir didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed firmly ahead. After a brief pause, she heard her partner shift in the snow.

“I envy poets. I’m not very adept with words myself,” the other woman said gruffly. “Sometimes I say the wrong thing. Sometimes I say nothing in fear of hurting you. The other day… I hurt you with both.”

“Is this you apologizing?” Shamir spoke at last. Her jaw was locked as she stared at the water.

“I’m trying to.” She heard Catherine step forward. “Shamir, will you look at me?”

“That depends on what I’ll find when I do.” The Dagdan woman tensed. She was uncertain what she would see in Catherine’s face. Guilt? The same resignation as before? Either would be intolerable.

“Please, Shamir.” The plea was rough, but not impatient. Shamir relented after a time, bracing for what her partner might say. Her eyes fell upon Catherine and pored over each minute detail. The taller woman appeared apprehensive, but there was a light in her gaze that she didn’t expect. Her lips were creased into a rueful smile. Wary, Shamir trailed her eyes downward. She focused on the sword hitched to Catherine’s belt. Her throat tightened with grief, stealing her voice. Shamir looked away.

“So this is your choice,” she spat bitterly. “Did you hope I would wait here while you wage your pointless war? Or do you wish me to take up arms and fight the Empire by your side?”

“Neither.” Catherine leaned away, as if struck. “I would never expect that of you. And I have no intention of fighting.”

“You say this, yet you carry a sword at your hip.”

“I brought it to make a point, if you’ll let me.”

Despite her better judgment, Shamir looked at her once more. Their eyes met and held. She watched as Catherine’s chest expanded with air. The woman slid her feet through the snow, falling into a familiar stance. She drew the blade and held it aloft. Then, Catherine flew into a flurry of cuts, unimpeded by the ice at her feet. She was slower, but no less graceful than her days as a famed Knight. Shamir could see the deadly potential with each movement. Catherine halted, sword dropping to her side.

“I barely notice the difference now. If I wanted, I could lead. If needed, I could fight.” Catherine’s stare darkened. “I could win the Duke a crown or I could die in pursuit of the Emperor. This wound did not break me beyond repair. Should I wish it, I could keep my vows as the sword of the Goddess.”

Her lips pulled at the ends. The Dagdan woman was reminded of a thousand moments where she looked the same — burdened by duty, but unwilling to shed its weight. She had hid her doubt beneath a pleasant smile, and Shamir had not known the difference. Yet now, she knew what Catherine looked like when she was truly happy. The former Knight raised her head, and the storm in her eyes cleared.

“But I don’t want to do this. And that life not what I choose for myself.” Catherine returned the sword to its scabbard. Then, she flung the weapon away. It sank beneath the pale. “I wanted to show you that I’m not hindered by the past. I refuse to be chained by my vows. I refuse to let my affection for the dead drag me into the grave with them.”

Shamir stared at her, hardly breathing. Heat gathered in her throat and behind her eyes. She remained in place as the taller woman approached.

“You told me once that you chose me. I didn’t understand the full weight of those words then. But I do now.” Catherine smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through the clouds. Large palms hovered around her waist. “Because I’m choosing _you_. If that means we sail to Dagda and make trouble wherever we go, then that would be a wonderful life. And if it means we stay, growing old and fat surrounded by busybody neighbors; that would be a wonderful life too.”

Shamir swallowed, blinking rapidly. Something wet fell down her cheeks. She wiped her face, unable to speak past the tide of relief pulsing in her chest. Catherine made a faint noise of concern, but she ignored it. Instead, Shamir lunged for her partner. The Dagdan woman clung to Catherine, hiding her eyes within the folds of a linen shirt. Strong arms held her securely, and Shamir finally let go of the anxiety that plagued her. She relaxed as Catherine kissed her brow.

“It was foolish of me to consider leaving. Can you forgive me?”

Shamir sniffed, but the sound was less scornful than she intended. The disdain was marred by the hacking breaths she took.

“You’ve always been infuriating. I know better than to expect any different,” Shamir murmured into her partner’s neck. She clutched at Catherine possessively, unwilling to cede her grip. “You could have said this last night.”

“I tried.” Catherine laughed. The vibration of it traveled through Shamir’s ribs before burrowing into her heart. “I don’t think you weren’t ready to hear it. You had other priorities, as I recall.”

Violet eyes shut at the memory. An echo of unease rattled her briefly.

“I feared what you might say. I wanted one last night without the weight of the future hanging over us.” Shamir soaked in the scent of pine and sandalwood. “I thought…”

“You thought I would accept his offer,” Catherine finished the thought, tone achingly somber. She sighed and the air fogged. “It’s my fault for hesitating. I genuinely believed the Lady was owed her vengeance, and I needed to take it in her stead. But that’s a silly reason to wage war over. The dead are gone, along with their bitterness.”

Catherine swept a hand through Shamir’s hair.

“I’m more interested in your desires. We can be whatever you like; go wherever you wish. I’ll be happy no matter what you choose.”

“I’m surprised you’re not pressing me to stay.” Shamir drew back to look into steady blue eyes.

“That would be selfish of me, and I’m tired of trading your comfort in favor of my own.” Long fingers curled around her cheek. A thumb swept beneath her eye, smoothing away the damp. “That’s not how a partnership works. We are partners above all else, aren’t we?”

The simplicity of that question was disarming. Shamir considered the former Knight, but found only honesty within her face. No guile or reluctance was hidden in her stare. It was only proper to offer a response just as candidly. So Shamir dug within and found the only answer that fit.

“We are.” She twisted a strand of wheat around her ring finger. That day in Conand returned, when she begged her partner with a million unsaid dreams. Yet the recollection was no longer painful. This time, she was confident the outcome would be different. So Shamir dared to ask, “Catherine, will you stay with me?”

“Always,” Catherine replied without pause. Her voice was firm, devoid of uncertainty. And that was enough for Shamir to believe. She kissed the edge of her partner's jaw and smiled as Catherine leaned down for a proper embrace. She sank into the heat of her body. A cold wind blew hard against them, but Shamir barely felt its sting. As time continued its stride, she no longer feared the future. They would face it together; as they had since Rhea bound them together, and as they had chosen ever since.

_בעולם אחד האריה מת__._ But she would never see that world. It would fade from possibility, becoming nothing more than a long-forgotten worry. Shamir skittered her fingers beneath Catherine’s shirt, seeking body heat. She basked in the throaty chuckle this elicited, knowing she would hear that sound for countless years to come.

* * *

There was an unexpected virtue to winter. The other months could not inspire the same need to sit beside a fire or search for warmth in a loved one. There was an intimacy within the cold, and Shamir was glad for the nearness of her partner. Flushed from cider and wrapped in blankets, she was thoroughly content. The others were absent, the nun taking the children for a stroll. She cared for them, a strange happenstance in of itself, but the Dagdan woman was relieved to have this moment of peace with Catherine.

She felt her partner move, and long arms carefully stoked the pit. A tongue of flame arched beneath the logs as Catherine prodded. Once satisfied, she set the poker aside and tilted her feet near the flames. Then she gave a mighty grunt as her frame unwound. Fingers ran through the windswept length of her hair. Shamir watched, overwhelmingly fond of these tiny idiosyncrasies. Sensing the scrutiny, Catherine looked at her.

“What?”

“I was just thinking of how imperfect you are.” Shamir curled into her partner’s side. She traced a circular pattern atop Catherine’s knee. “You’re messy, indelicate, and irritating beyond measure.”

“Heh, whisper me some more sweet nothings.” The taller woman snorted. She bared her teeth, but it was a playful sneer more than anything. “Already trying to cut me loose? I was hoping we would get to the wedding first.”

“Your assumptions are getting out of hand. But no, I haven’t tired of you just yet.” Shamir inspected her lover’s features. She was hazy under the dim light, as if the edge of her had worn away. In the Knights, Catherine perpetually held a turbulent energy. The core of her had been a storm, and she did not earn her moniker from relic alone. Thunder was not a calm thing; it growled and roared with defiance. Ser Catherine had been the same. Shamir was not accustomed to this languorous side she displayed, but it was far from unwelcome.

“I never trusted those who feigned perfection,” she eventually continued. “The artifice grates. Most of the Church was like that, but you were flawed and rough. Meeting you was akin to finding glass in sand.”

“That sounds awful.” The other woman blinked at her.

“Maybe in Fόdlan.” Shamir smirked before averting her stare to the twisting smoke. “I already told you about my days spent along the shore in Dagda. On occasion, I would find structures of glass within the sand. They would form after a storm; gnarled and complicated like the roots of a tree. They fascinated me, beautifully flawed in the way only acts of nature can be.”

“So you think I’m fascinating?” Catherine asked in jest.

“Not quite. However, like the glass, you distinguished yourself among the rest. An oddity in supposed uniformity.” Shamir paused, considering her words. “You were sharp, sometimes unpleasant, but unapologetic of your nature. I found that attractive.”

“That’s funny. I thought the same of you.” She felt more than heard Catherine’s ensuing laugh. “We make a fine pair. Goddess help the fools who try to split us. Rufus is in for a rude awakening.”

“Hmm.” Shamir frowned at the reminder. “We should discuss what to do about him. He won’t be too pleased when you reject his offer.”

“I don’t much care how he feels.” Her partner raised a brow, clearly incredulous. “The Duke would have happily used my family name and prestige. I don’t feel any sympathy for a man like that.”

“Nor I. However, he remains a powerful figure in Faerghus. His governance might have been crippled by the Emperor’s authority, but Blaiddyd gold could still hold sway.”

“Fair point.” Catherine's smile waned. “I guess I didn’t think of the harm he could still do. Still, I refuse to cower at his feet. I won’t let us be dragged into another war, Shamir.”

“I feel the same.” The Dagdan woman traced a hand across rigid shoulders. She felt her lover’s tension uncurl. “However, we are not without means. If it comes down to it, I might be inclined to settle this uprising before the Empire gets wind.”

“What do you mean?”

Shamir glanced up at Catherine from beneath her lashes. She drifted her fingers along the ridge of the woman’s collar before sliding a nail across her throat. Comprehension dawned upon her partner. Catherine swallowed against the edge of her index.

“That... would take care of him,” she admitted. “I’m not sure it would solve the uprising issue, though. He mentioned allies. If you kill him, what’s to stop them from seeking our heads? That kid poses another problem, unless you want to add infanticide to the score.”

“I won’t murder a child.” Shamir scowled, deeply uncomfortable at this suggestion. She had killed for numerous clients and for, at times, inexplicable reasons. But children were a line she would never cross. She might have threatened on occasion, but it had always been a bluff. No matter the price or purpose, a babe should never suffer for the convenience of others. Catherine stared at her levelly.

“Then we need to leave Rufus alive. He’s an idiot, but at least he’s one I know. The man might be driven by guilt or wayward ambition currently, yet he’s still the same proud lech who fumbled his way through a regency. Still, he might try to strong-arm us into complying.” The former Knight tore her eyes away. She rubbed her neck, contemplative. “We could run if that’s what you want.”

“If a blizzard strikes, we won't make it far.”

“The weather has been mild, and we have the rest of the week before he returns,” Catherine reasoned. “If you still want to head north, it could be done. I can’t promise we’ll find a Sreng ship that will sail us to Dagda, but there’s a chance.”

“Maybe.” Shamir’s hand fell, settling atop her partner’s diaphragm. She was quiet for a time, counting each rise and fall of Catherine’s breast. “...Have you changed your mind then?”

“On?”

"Your desire to stay." She connected their eyes. "I know you love it here. You don't need to pretend otherwise for my sake."

Catherine licked her lips, appearing uneasy. She shrugged, an obvious attempt at dismissal that Shamir was not moved by.

“I do enjoy this place. Cozy, remote, unlikely to get wrapped in courtly drama. The people aren’t too bad, either.” Catherine peered sidelong at the shorter woman. Her stare held a plaintive quality. “I won’t lie to you. Should we stay, it would please me. But I would hate to force your hand. I’m leaving the choice up to you.”

“You wouldn’t be forcing me,” Shamir replied. She took her partner’s chin in hand gently. “Earlier, you were right to define our relationship as a partnership foremost. Don’t downplay what you want from me, and I’ll do the same. So, Catherine, tell me what you want.”

“I—” Catherine swallowed thickly, jaw working in tandem. They shared a brief silence as she struggled with unknown thoughts. Then her eyes glittered with firelight, brightening with conviction. “I want to remain. I want to know what it’s like to build a life for myself without the burden of expectation or duty. And Shamir… I want to do all of that with you. Do you feel the same?”

“I do.” The Dagdan swept her lips along Catherine’s cheek. “I was wondering when you would ask me properly. Reticence doesn’t suit you.”

“Can you blame me? Suffering your anger is worse than anything Rufus could do. A pungent stable isn’t the most luxurious lodging, after all.” Fair brows knit as something seemed to occur to the former Knight. “Speaking of lodging, I have one last thing to show you.”

“If it's another sword, I'm going to toss it into the fire."

“Ha! I don’t think that would make the best kindling, but no. That’s not it.” Catherine squirmed, reaching down in the space between them. She searched through her pockets before breaking into a jubilant grin. Nimbly, she flipped a dark object between her fingers. It was a key, partially rusted from age and disuse. “Turns out, Weyland wasn’t always a grumpy hermit who hid in the woods. He had a home in town, and he offered it up without anything in return. A good man, that Weyland."

“I see he’s climbed a few pegs in your regard. I’m surprised the feeling seems to be mutual.” Shamir plucked it from her partner’s hold. Such a small and simple thing, yet it held so much significance. For so long, she felt as if her life was at a stand-still. So she had moved in fear of stagnating in shark-infested waters. But this village was not the same as the one she grew up in, nor was it similar to Garreg Mach.

When they arrived, she assumed that nothing could grow surrounded by ice. She had been wrong. They had been moving forward in ways they never had before. And they would continue that journey together, as they always had. _סופו של מסע אחד ותחילתו של אחר__._ Shamir smiled secretively and watched as light refracted off the iron.

“Tomorrow, shall we take a trip to our new home?”

Catherine beamed. Her hold was tight as she brought the shorter woman in for an eager kiss. Shamir humored her, the key still resting between her fingers. When they slept, it was a deep and perfect sleep. Terrors did not besiege and they held each other with uncommon security. Shamir did not stir until the first blush of light, and when she opened her eyes it was to the sun of Catherine’s smile.

That expression did not fade as they tromped through the wind and snow. Weyland had joined them for this trip, swagger matching Catherine’s. They chatted with ease, barbs traded as swiftly as camaraderie. The Dagdan woman walked in silence, content to listen to their idle banter. Shamir’s knowledge of the man was limited, but she could recognize when a person thought themself in the company of friends.

The journey was not long. The house was nestled in a grove just on the edge of the wood. It faced the village’s northern border, a stone’s throw from a generous incline. Its size was modest, but more than serviceable for their needs. The location was far from the central cluster of homes, but still near enough to consider them neighbors. Already, a handful of curious eyes were aimed in their direction. Shamir tolerated their curiosity, knowing that interest would increase when finally moved within. She looked to her partner, inspecting her reaction.

Catherine stared at the house with slack-jawed fascination. Then, her lips stretched with a broad grin. Weyland moved beside her. His eyes were wistful. The look fled beneath a tide of affection as he clasped Catherine’s shoulder. He muttered something Shamir couldn’t make out. Suddenly, blue eyes settled on violet. The former Knight reached out her hand.

Shamir didn’t know whether they would stay forever. Perhaps nothing could hold that certainty. However, she did know this was what they both wanted. No matter the hardship, they would face it together. That was better than any promise of adventure or permanence. She clasped Catherine’s fingers, confident in the choice she made.

* * *

The days that followed were calm. Weyland and Catherine worked as they always had, sparing their free moments to tend to the house. Many repairs were needed before it was livable; decay and wildlife had gnawed the boards and walls to the barest of bones. Winter would only continue to impede their efforts, but the former Knight was undaunted. When the Dagdan woman tried to persuade her to wait until the spring, Catherine laughed heartily.

“_And wait for ice to cave this roof entirely? I think not. By the month's end, I'll have us a house.”_

Stubborn as she was, Shamir knew it was futile to argue. Her partner’s mind was set on building them a home, and so a home they would have. More often than not, she could feel the elation her partner held. Catherine hardly seemed affected by the labor, both personal and professional. That enthusiasm proved infectious, bleeding into Shamir's mood. Yet the specter of Rufus Blaiddyd’s aims could not be forgotten.

As she enjoyed these gentle moments, the looming danger never ceased to nag. His plans could be the spark to another war, and even a village as disconnected as Culann would feel the repercussion of this. Catherine is blithe, conspicuous in her irreverence for the man. Perhaps it was a learned habit from the days she spent safe from his grasp. But they would never be free of him should he make a nuisance of himself.

There was logic in leaving him alive, much as it inflamed her to think about. His death might bring more than just the Emperor’s attention to their doorstep. Nonetheless, the decision grated like a nail underfoot. They could do nothing but wait for his arrival. She did not think the Duke capable of murdering them in cold blood, but he wouldn’t be above attempting to earn Catherine’s allegiance by other means.

The former Knight might think of him as a fool playing at freedom fighter, but Shamir didn’t quite share this opinion. Desperate people did desperate things; all the more when blood debts were to be paid. So Shamir would watch him with the attention she gave any beast that was cornered and bloodied. And if he dared to flash his fangs at Catherine, she would not hesitate to bare hers.

Duke Blaiddyd’s arrival was heralded by a wicked wind. He rode from the south, doffing plain traveling garb in favor of glittering plate. A circlet of silver crested his brow, golden curls tied with blue silk. Many eyes lit upon him, a fact he must have known and relished. Ever watchful, Shamir spotted him the moment he entered Culann’s outskirts. She crept through the trees, curious about his lack of entourage. Adorned as he was, the man would not have traveled the roads without guard. So where were his soldiers? Did they await him somewhere to the south?

_Or the north. _Shamir pursed her lips, mulling over the possibilities. Suddenly, the soldiers they saw weeks ago held new meaning. If it had been Blaiddyd pressing towards Sreng and not Gautier… Worry bloomed beneath her breast. What madness was the Duke pursuing? Shamir followed his movements until he reached the chapel grounds. She knew what he would find there.

Catherine, keen to keep up with the baron’s demands, had cobbled together a makeshift forge by the well. Heedless of the man, her partner worked the metal steadily. Shamir tensed as the Duke rode near the woman. Catherine’s head lifted as he said something unknown. They traded a few words before Rufus slid down from the saddle. Shamir wandered closer to better hear their conversation.

“I’m surprised you’re keeping up with this pretense. Indebted or no, metallurgy is a waste of your talents.”

“Attempts at flattery will get you nowhere, Duke Blaiddyd.” Catherine wiped her face. She seemed relaxed, but the coil of her arm was tight. She held her hammer in a white-knuckled grip. The Duke was ignorant of this. He walked around the well to face her.

“I’m only giving you my honesty. You may be lamed, but you were bred to wage war. Toiling away upon an anvil does not become someone of your lineage.” The man glanced at the squared block of granite the woman was using. “Or a boulder, as it were. Come to my camp. I can show you the forces we’ve amassed and the men you will lead.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Catherine straightened, the bulk of her frame drawing upward. Shamir could see the telltale flash of her eyes; a sign of danger the duke would likely not heed. “I don’t care what expectations you have of me. I won’t be compliant in an ill-fated revolt.”

"Your petulance grows tiring. Don't you understand this is the only way to take Faerghus back? The bones of our country lie at the Emperor's feet. We must see it restored."

“I have only one duty, and it’s not to you. Nor is it to Lady Rhea, Goddess preserve her.” A shadow of sadness passed over the former Knight, but she held true. Catherine’s defiance was solid, unbending before the man’s mounting vexation. “Ride back to Itha, Rufus. Hold your son, and don’t get him killed over a throne he did not ask for.”

“You entreat the Goddess, but break your vows to Her so readily.” An ugly gash of red crept up the Duke’s throat. “My son was chosen by Her. She will guide us to reclamation and you have the chance to be there to see it. Yet you deny me for a life of ignominy. Would you rather lick the Empire’s boot than support a rightful King? Will you let our country continue to suffer?”

“I see no shame in choosing peace over war.” Catherine shrugged, resting her hammer along her shoulder. “As for Faerghus, the people suffered long before Edelgard seized power. They haven’t forgotten the years you spent as regent. Unrest will brew, and this time you won’t have the Church to call upon.”

“All these years and you still haven’t changed.” Rufus breathed through his teeth, eyes dark with malice. “You pledge your loyalty, only to forget when it suits you. Lambert. Rhea. Dimitri. Has there been anyone you haven’t disappointed?”

“I never pledged myself to Dimitri, and King Lambert was long dead before you called my House to assist in genocide.” Catherine looked beyond the man, stare hovering around the trees. “I fought to the last for Lady Rhea, and I failed her deeply. But not because of the Emperor. I failed her by overlooking her pain and excusing her madness. I failed the Goddess by obeying an order I knew to be wrong."

Shamir stilled as blue eyes canted in her direction.

“I’m no saint. I have done wrong of my own will. Should She judge me at the end I’ll accept everything. Until then, I want to live my life for good with the people that I love.”

“All I hear is cowardice.” The Duke’s jaw locked. His hands flexed in agitation as he began to pace. “I offer you so much and you _spit _in my face. Land, wealth, a name worth keeping. Cassandra of Charon once again, completing the destiny the Goddess had planned for you. You were meant to lead; that was why She blessed you with a crest.”

“You’re right.” Catherine smiled humorlessly. “I am Cassandra, but I don’t reclaim that name at your behest. Who knows? Maybe my crest was just a happy accident. Either way, I'm not going with you."

“You’re a fool to reject me,” the Duke hissed. “My son, your _King, _needs you. Will you abandon him just as you did Dimitri?”

“I’m sorry for your loss, but nothing could have saved your nephew. Not in the state he was in. And when this little insurrection is quashed, I will mourn the death of House Blaiddyd.” Catherine turned on her heel, bending her head over the bed of coals she had gathered. Shamir smiled at the sight of her, unspeakably fond of her partner. She tensed at the sound of steel pulling from a scabbard.

“I am ashamed to have thought better of you.” The man breathed hard through his teeth. “At every juncture, in every manner possible, you have made a nuisance of yourself. What’s to stop me from killing you now? No allies to protect you. No relic to defend yourself—”

“You think I need a relic? Don’t be an idiot.” Catherine hefted the hammer high. “One good strike is all I would need. Leg or not, I can kill you easily. You’re no warrior, Rufus. Stop pretending to be something you’re not.”

“I don’t need to best you in combat. I know where your affections lie, and where to cut you deepest.” The Duke’s stare was cold, but there was a familiar fervor that reminded Shamir of another Blaiddyd man. “If I have to raze this village to ash, _I will_. Do not test me.”

Wroth ignited with the strength of wildfire. Shamir loosed an arrow at his heel, satisfied as he leapt with shock. She exited the thicket and headed for Catherine’s side. The Duke paled upon glimpsing her face.

“Threaten this village again, and you won’t live to see the morning.” Shamir gestured to the sword he held. “Sheathe that toy of yours before it gets you killed.”

“The Dagdan cur… Rhea’s little knife in the dark.” The man’s expression tightened with both fear and contempt. “Of course. Suddenly, her survival makes more sense. And I assume you told Catherine to deny my proposal?”

“I didn’t need to. My partner is capable of making her own decisions.” She nocked another arrow, tugging gently on the string. It was enough to send a message. “Sheathe, or I send an arrow through your arm.”

Duke Blaiddyd stared at her. His cheeks puckered, lips flattening. For a brief moment, Shamir thought he would lunge for them. However, he seemed to think better of it and quickly heeded her demand.

“You’ll live to regret this.” He swept an agitated hand towards the village. “Go on then. Live as paupers in a land of barren fields and endless snow. When the throne is mine, you’ll reconsider your hasty words. I promise you.”

“You can make whatever claims you like. Just know that should I see any of your men, we’ll slaughter them. Then I’ll come for you.” Shamir heard Catherine stand by her shoulder. She drew strength from her partner’s silent support, cutting her eyes to the man’s face. He tensed, and she knew the threat had been felt. “Sleep lightly, Duke Blaiddyd. These winter nights are long and dark. You never know what could hide in the shadows.”

He didn’t respond, but she did not miss the convulsing bob of his throat. Dark blue eyes passed between her and Catherine. Then, the man scoffed and whirled on his heel. He stalked towards his horse, snatching the reins. His gaze was averted to the dirt road as he climbed into the saddle. Suddenly, Catherine called to his departing figure.

“I don’t regret that day on the Rhodos; not anymore.” The former Knight crossed her arms, but the look she offered the Duke was not hostile. Her eyes were solemn, heavy with something akin to sympathy. “Had I obeyed your order, I’d just be inflicting more misery. King Lambert was dead and nothing could change that. You waged a bloodbath across the country for your brother, but it never brought you peace. Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

The Duke’s back stiffened, yet he refused to glance at them. The wind whipped around his frame with an angry wail. He shortened the reins and galloped into the wood. Shamir stared after him for a time, chafing with the ever-present desire to fill him with metal. The urge passed as he finally faded from view. She stole a look at her partner, measuring her features. Catherine’s posture unwound like thread, and her anxious energy drained.

“Why did you tell him that?” Shamir asked, genuinely curious. The taller woman pulled on her ear idly, gaze distant.

“It’s always been a sore wound between us. Maybe I just wanted him to know why.” Catherine leaned against the well. “And maybe I thought he could use a little honesty. The nobility are a deluded bunch, as you know. Rational advice would do him some good.”

“He doesn’t deserve any consideration.”

“I’m sure there were those who said the same of me. He’s a man lost in his regrets, Shamir. Is strange that I would find kinship in that?"

The Dagdan woman frowned but did not contest the claim. She considered Catherine in silence before sidling to her side.

“It’s not like you to be empathetic.” Shamir reached for calloused fingers, wrapping them between her own. She enjoyed the sight of Catherine’s coloring against the palette of winter. “You’ve come a long way from that aggravating, self-absorbed Knight I was forced to work with.”

“And you’ve come a long way from that scowling killjoy who I believed had no sense of humor.” Catherine chuckled heartily. She brought the Dagdan woman’s fingers to her lips. Heat raced pleasantly through her at the touch. Shamir bit her lip, suppressing a smile. “It’s more fun when faulty beliefs are proven wrong. What do you think?”

“I think it’s cold, and I’m tired of standing up to my ankles in ice.” She glanced through the towering columns of birch. “...He might return. We should be ready for that possibility.”

“We will be.” Catherine grinned. “Besides, he’ll be too busy trying to keep the Emperor from catching wind of his little coup. If we’re lucky, she’ll sort him before he can dream of coming after us.”

“Careful, Catherine. You almost sound approving.”

“Hardly. But I’m not above praying for a threat to meet its untimely end. Of course, I’m sure we could handle him on our own.” Catherine paused. She used her free hand to comb through Shamir’s hair. “Rufus may have his tin soldiers, but we have each other. Right, partner?”

The Dagdan woman didn’t respond, but she didn’t feel it was necessary. And as she leaned against the solid frame of her partner, she felt Catherine understood all that was left unsaid. Shamir closed her eyes and enjoyed this quiet moment. Perhaps in the future, they would need to worry about what might come next. Yet for now, they could rest and live their lives as they desired.

* * *

As time passed, winter settled deep into the heart of Gautier. The snows came and went, blanketing everything in their wake. Some days seemed to stretch on for years and others that passed in a blink. It was the nature of the north, Shamir found; a dreamlike scattering of time broken by events both great and small. Culann was isolated, but the slow beat of the village was one she was familiar with – like the steady flow of a river or the pulsating cadence of the ocean. And in that languid rhythm, she found peace.

She believed the same could be said of Catherine. While her days were oft spent in tireless work, the burgeoning smith never failed to return with a smile. There was a looseness to her gait that had never been there previously. Watching her, Shamir could sense her contentment. Perhaps the winter sun of Faerghus was not quite the same as a Dagdan shore, but this happiness was surely comparable. When the repaired cabin was finally complete, Catherine smiled the brightest she had ever seen. As they made a home with the help of many, Shamir allowed herself to think that maybe there was a purpose to everything they had suffered.

Then one day, a new visitor came to Culann. A great carriage cut through their border and tramped imperiously through the white roads. Shamir was wary of this newcomer, thinking it could be a diversion of the Duke's or some other noble's attempt to seek their services. But the lumbering figure who stepped out from the box was not known to her. The man was taller than most, torso broad and vast like an oak. He looked around himself, surveying the land like a prospector. The comparison, as she would discover, was not too far from the truth.

“Baron Friuch.”

Shamir craned her head at the name. Catherine wiped her hands with a towel, ducking out of her modest workshop. The structure was a covered stretch of packed dirt and ash more than anything, but her partner was proud of it all the same. The former Knight’s features were pensive as she stared at the man.

“Do you know why he’s here?” Shamir asked. She nearly moved to fetch her bow, but Catherine’s blithe wave stopped her.

“I don’t know, but it can’t be because of anything we’ve done. If anything, I’ve exceeded his demands.” Catherine rubbed her jaw thoughtfully. “Might as well see what he wants. It’s best not to bite the hand that feeds; and despite any misgivings, he has fed us well.”

“Are you sure he’s not under the Duke’s thumb?”

“Never sure, but I doubt it.” A careless grin was thrown Shamir’s way. “Care to join us? He might be lenient if he knows a comely woman is depending on him.”

Shamir glowered, unamused by her partner’s deflection. Still, she followed after the other woman without complaint. As they walked closer to the man, his features pulled with recognition. His eyes trailed up Catherine’s frame, assessing.

“Cassandra of Culann.” To Shamir’s surprise, the baron bent his considerable mass into a small dip. “A quaint little village you have here. It’s smaller than I had imagined. But perhaps that’s not a shock. I had never heard of this place before you stomped into my study.”

“We get by,” Catherine returned with shrug. Despite her casual words, the former Knight’s posture was alert. Shamir could see the tension that lay in the tight cords of her neck. “I never thought I would see you here of all places. The next caravan isn’t due for another week. Unless you’ve come to express complaint with our work?”

“Luckily for you, that isn’t the case.” The baron tipped his head down to stare at them. The knobbed bridge of his nose wrinkled as he noticed Shamir’s presence. He gave her the same considering look as he had Catherine. The Dagdan woman saw no evidence of appreciation or disgust in his eyes. There was something exceedingly detached about him, and she knew his measure at once. “Is this an associate of yours?”

“Lady Shay is one of our healers.” Despite her tension, Catherine sent the shorter woman a tender look. “She’s also my partner.”

“That’s rather odd nomenclature for spouse, but I won’t decry what you choose to call yourselves.” The baron fluttered his hand, and his attention shifted back to Catherine. “While I’m not here to criticize your work, I am here on business. You must understand, I was very _concerned_ when Duke Blaiddyd came asking after you. I feared our arrangement would come to an abrupt end in its infancy. Yet you seem to be doing very well.”

“The Duke thought I was someone else. I convinced him otherwise and then he left.”

“Is that so?” The man didn’t appear entirely appeased, but he allowed the subject to drop. He tapped the button of his vest idly. “Curious. However, I can’t say this is out of character for him. The Duke has been increasingly erratic of late. It’s… given me some pause. Did he reveal where he was heading next?”

“No. At least, not that I’ve seen.” Catherine scratched the back of her neck. Shamir watched as she squirmed in place. It was clear she didn’t want to reveal more than necessary. The baron was an ally, but an opportunistic one. It was hard to say where he would fall concerning his liege lord's rebellion. Nonetheless, the man seemed completely oblivious to the prospective revolt. The irritation written upon his face made that very clear.

“A couple months ago, some soldiers were spotted heading up the mountain,” Shamir spoke evenly. The baron turned to her, gaze searching. “We assumed them to be from Gautier. But the Lord was not with them, and they have yet to return from the pass.”

“The mountain.” Pale eyes flicked to up the sheer slabs of ice-covered granite. “You’re certain of this? If so–”

The baron pursed his lips, stifling the rest. Then he shook his head.

“I don’t know what trouble he’s stirring nor what madness has taken hold of him. I don’t much care, but I would rather not lose a valuable resource. I’ll be sending a few more of my men with the next caravan. Put them to use as you require. This place is far too vulnerable for my liking.”

“That’s generous of you.” Catherine blinked, taken aback. The baron stared at her with light condescension.

“Not so. I’m merely protecting my assets. A corpse can’t forge me metal, after all.” He straightened and ambled to his carriage. As he climbed inside he sent them a parting flick of his wrist. “Carry on then. But should the good Duke return, send me a letter. I would be interested in where he goes next.”

With that, the man departed in a whirl of horses and snow. As they watched him leave, Catherine breathed out heavily.

“That was odd. I’m not sure why he bothered to come, honestly.”

“I don’t know what to make of it either,” Shamir revealed. A few possibilities came to mind, but none of them were pleasant to think about. The baron might not have been in the pocket of the Duke, but that didn't mean he was without a master. Edelgard would have a great incentive to keep eyes on the last remaining members of House Blaiddyd. Momentarily, Shamir thought to send discrete word of the Duke’s plans to the nearest barracks. She thought better of it, unwilling to suffer the scrutiny that would bring.

As Catherine slung an arm over her shoulder, any talk of war or nobility was soundly put to rest. Whatever the baron’s goal, they wouldn’t be party to them either way. And if he did serve the Emperor, then he could find his answer by other means. Edelgard could sort her own problems. If not, then she wasn’t the person Shamir remembered her to be.

* * *

The months went by without strife, holding steadfast to the slow pace of winter. Yet the restless need to wander never arose, and the fear of war lessened by the day. They fell into a pattern, but it wasn’t a frozen thing that stagnated. It changed and grew, organic in its gentle complexity. At times tiny, near inconsequential changes; such as the maturing mindsets of children, the earnest greetings from neighbors and patients alike, and the habits of two women settling into new aspects of their partnership.

When they eventually retired from the bustle of each day, Shamir felt a surging gratitude. She couldn’t be sure if the Father in His silent observation held favor with her choices. However, no matter the truth, Shamir did not regret a thing.

“It's strange how swiftly time can pass," Bothild said one morning. The older woman rocked pleasantly in her chair, smiling at the children she sheltered. They were drawing on sheets of parchment, red and auburn hair glowing with the light from the fire pit. Shamir sat across from the nun, visiting them as she often did. “Already the Pegasus Moon… To think, soon we’ll be heralding spring. It will be nice to see things blooming again.”

“All I want is for these blizzards to stop.” Shamir looked to the window. It was coated in a fine glaze of ice. What little she could see was an ocean of white, thrown with careless might by the wind. “If the weather doesn’t clear, I might need to stay here for the night. Would you mind if I kept Saloma with you until it ends? She’s a hearty horse, but the enclosure my partner built isn’t as comfortable as the chapel stable.”

“It would be no trouble. The children do miss her. Though, I think Connla is a might more timid after she gnawed on his hair.” The older woman tittered warmly. “They miss the both of you as well. I caught the boy sneaking off to the village the last time we had a storm. He tried to say it was to play with the baker’s lads, but I knew better.”

“I’m sure Catherine wouldn’t mind. She soaks up any adoration.” Shamir paused, eyes darting to the boy in question. He had fallen asleep on the floor, cheek pressed to the parchment he had been scribbling over. Hitched snores slipped from him steadily. “It would help if he picked up a trade. He’s old enough to learn, and a smith is widely respected.”

“I’ll broach it with him in the morning. Of course, I’m sure he’ll leap at the chance. A shame Aife is so reserved. It’s hard to say where her path in life will lead.” The nun folded her hands across her stomach. Her gaze was soft as she observed the pair. Aife was still awake, diligently working, and blissfully oblivious to her caretaker’s scrutiny.

“It's a bit too soon to worry after her prospects." Shamir frowned. "She's young. Should you be concerned with what she'll do in the future?"

“Each day is a new one, bringing with it new struggles. Nothing lasts forever, not youth, and certainly not peace.” Bothild leaned away from the light. Her features appeared drawn suddenly. “Tick-tick, says the clock. And oh it never stops. One day, I will be gone. Where will my children go then? Connla is strong in some ways but weaker in others. The same is true for Aife.”

She rubbed her eyes.

“Did I ever tell you why I took them in?”

"No," Shamir replied. "You only mentioned their parents in passing. Were you acquainted?"

“Not quite.” Bothild laughed gently. The husky timbre of it sounded doleful, and the younger woman watched her askance. “I met the father only once, and the mother was one of my first patients here. I was overly confident in those days. I was so certain I could manage her illness without trouble, but then one day she passed in the night. Shock was my first reaction, but then there was only shame. Death doesn’t care for plans, you see. It spites the strong and humbles the proud – as it did me.”

The nun’s chin shook with a barely noticeable tremor.

“Their death could not be stopped, by my hand or any other. Perhaps it’s silly of me to worry so deeply, but we can never be certain of the coming days. That gentleman who visited… He was no ordinary man, was he? Nor the one who came after.”

“No, they weren’t. But If you’re worried about the children—” Shamir began, fingers curled. They ached with the phantom weight of her bow. “I promise you we’ll do our best to watch over them and this village. We won’t allow anyone to come to harm.”

The Duke and his ambitions came to mind like a flash of lightning, but the thought faded just as fast. She held the nun’s eyes, words lined with steel.

“No matter what lies on the horizon, we shall weather it together.”

“That almost sounds like a vow,” Bothild commented softly. Shamir looked away from the nun, crossing her legs. She eyed the children with tentative affection. To her, vows had long been associated with the Church. The Dagdan woman had never formally pledged herself to Rhea; accepted her coin in exchange for service but words of fealty were not spoken. It had felt like a loophole then. Perhaps a convenient way to escape that life if she ever so chose. Yet she didn’t feel the same as she had with the Church.

_I have no desire to leave. __ואני לא צריך בריחה__. _So Shamir would not. It was as simple as that.

“Perhaps it is.” She stole another glance out the window. The light was quickly fading. Shadows collected beneath the sill in gloomy congregation. The snowfall had abated to a slow drift. “I should be going. I’m sure the blizzard will start up again if I linger.”

“That’s understandable. Cassandra will begin to worry if I keep you any longer.”

“Shay’s leaving?” Aife lifted her head. The girl appeared stricken as her eyes fell on Shamir. “But I was drawing something for you…”

“The storm won’t wait for you to finish. And you don’t want our friend to be buried under a mountain of snow, do you?” Bothild arched her brows as she scolded. “Now hurry and say your goodbyes.”

Shamir’s mouth twitched as the girl stared at her sheet of parchment forlornly.

“I suppose I can stay for just a moment longer.” She leaned her head into her palm, gratified when she received a relieved smile. Then Aife returned to her work, charcoal scratching across the paper rapidly. Shamir deftly ignored the amused look she received from her elderly companion. She hummed a nostalgic tune as she waited, echoing memories from another home a long time ago.

* * *

She returned an hour later, stalking through the darkness with the confidence of any nocturnal creature. The girl’s drawing, a grinning horse with legs like a spider, was rolled beneath her arm. It was a somewhat frightening depiction, but she refrained from saying as much. Shamir tugged her scarf above her mouth, smiling as she recalled the girl’s proud offering. The house was dark upon her arrival, yet the flickering light around the side betrayed Catherine’s location.

Drawn by the warm glow, Shamir moved toward the workshop. Only a single wall of wood prevented the winds from snuffing the forge fire. The rest was open to the elements, but her partner seemed to hardly feel the cold. She could hear the thunderous clamor of hammer and iron as she approached. A long shadow moved in tandem with the pulse of fire. Then Catherine’s frame came into view, working diligently at a sizable length of metal. Shamir watched her for a time.

The woman’s expression was fierce and striking; a mirror to her burning fervency upon the battlefield. And there was a certain kinship to the motion that couldn’t be denied. The arch of her back. The coiled musculature of her arm. The yielding of metal beneath her strikes just as flesh once had. But the difference was within the result. War was not a thing of creation. At its heart was the desire to raze. Yet it had its uses, and for the new to grow the old had to be cut from its foundation.

The Emperor knew that well. Perhaps this new Fόdlan would be better than the last. Shamir allowed her musings to fade, observation shifting into a more personal nature. Catherine had paused her smites, dabbing her brow with an ash-stained rag. Her skin was covered in a fine sheen, fair hair swept into a short tie. The locks had been shorn to her collar recently – due to a mishap with a stray spark – and her face was painted with smears of grey. Yet she looked just as handsome and lovely as the lion-grinned Knight Shamir remembered.

Catherine canted her head, sapphire eyes reflecting the dance of fire. She smiled at Shamir, and the Dagdan woman’s heart ached._ She’s much more than that now. _She wandered closer as her partner beckoned.

“Were you spying on me?” Catherine asked, amused.

“I prefer to think of it as observing.” Shamir hovered by the workbench. She pushed aside a lock of dark hair, still adjusting to the length. It was nearly long enough to braid. When the spring came, she would cut it to something more manageable. Perhaps she would have Catherine assist. The taller woman’s gaze softened as their eyes held.

“I suppose you can take the bow from the archer, but not the habits. You’re lucky I find your skulking adorable.” Catherine stretched, hand massaging the tense muscles of her neck. “See anything you like?”

“A few things.” The Dagdan woman stole a glance at the glossy shine of her skin. Lit only by the forge, Catherine’s frame was haloed by a warm range of hues. If Shamir had not known her, it was hard to imagine this dedicated and jovial smith as anything other than what she portrayed. Catherine was a quilt sewn from countless parts, torn and remade by many hands. However, it was the pieces she mended herself that were the most beautiful.

“Just a few? I can work with that.” Catherine smirked playfully. “Did you have a nice visit?”

“It was pleasant. All of them are doing well,” Shamir answered. She rested against the bench. “Bothild may come by with Connla in a few days. We both agreed apprenticing under you would be good for him.”

“Ha! I only know the basics. If that kid wants a real master he’ll need to work under Weyland. Still, I guess it could be fun.” Faint longing appeared on her partner’s face. “I do miss them. This house was a lovely gift and I love the privacy, but it’s not quite the same. Maybe next time, I’ll go with you.”

“I’m sure they would like that.” Shamir smiled as Catherine scrubbed vainly at her face, attempting to remove a long smear of ash. Bright eyes were creased as the other woman grunted in annoyance. Shamir quickly took a nearby rag in hand. “You’re a mess. Stay still for a moment.”

“Much obliged, Lady Shamir.” Catherine grinned. She managed not to squirm under the cloth when it brushed over her chin. Shamir rubbed her cheeks diligently. As she wiped dusky features, she felt the searing brand of Catherine’s stare. It was the same look Shamir had once associated with a starry night sky and affection unspoken. Now, years later, she knew it to mean love. She stilled as Catherine grasped her hand.

“You know, I never dreamt we would come so far.” Wistful reflection filled her partner’s eyes. “I once thought my life had begun with the Church. And I thought it would end that way too. In Fhirdiad, I was prepared to die. Did you know that?"

“I suspected.” It wasn’t a memory Shamir liked to linger on. They had never discussed that day at length nor in detail, but it remained with her as nightmares were wont. She would never forget the breathless moment when she found Catherine in that burning husk of a city; uncertain whether the woman still breathed. She blinked, and the image faded.

“I wanted to live, but I fought to the end for Lady Rhea all the same. And I thought I would be content with that. So I waited for the Goddess to take me.” An odd little smile slanted Catherine’s lips. “Yet you kept me from death and stole me away for yourself. How greedy of you.”

“Are you saying I should have left you there?” Shamir narrowed her eyes, voice filled with warning. She received a mirth-filled chuckle.

“Not at all. I’m just thinking about how one choice led to so much.” Catherine tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. “Every pain. Every moment of fear. Every hurdle. It was all worth it. What do you think?”

“I think you’re becoming dangerously sappy.”

“Heh, I can’t deny it. You always did bring out the worse in me, but the best parts too.” Catherine straightened and her throat bobbed. A sudden flush came to her features. “Shamir, I might not always say the right thing, and there’s not a lot I can offer on my own. But I love you. More than I ever thought I could love anything. I wanted to do something that would bear the weight of that.”

“I don’t need anything,” Shamir replied honestly. “Just you by my side would be enough.”

"I feel the same." Catherine reached into her coat, wrapping fingers around something unknown. "However, we both hold memories that we keep dear and I’ve learned that it’s important to remember – for all that we’ve loved, and for the future we want to see. Not to linger, but to move forward with everything we’ve gained.”

Catherine reached out her hand, palm open. A circular object lay within. It was misshapen, imperfect in form; the ends crudely welded into place. It was evident Catherine didn’t quite know how to work steel as she did iron, yet… Something warm and gentle settled over the Dagdan woman. She plucked the bangle from her partner, twisting it in the dim light. Then, Shamir recognized a familiar pattern and her heart lurched. She bit back a sob, peering up into Catherine’s face.

“I know you told me to toss it, but that felt like a waste.” Her partner leaned in and kissed her brow. “You carried that dagger with you for years. I knew it meant a lot, more than you would ever admit. And while it couldn’t be a blade anymore, that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. Sometimes, all you need is a little work to forge the broken into something new.”

“...Like you?” Shamir asked, tone rough with emotion. Catherine hummed.

“Yeah, like me. But also this town and maybe this country too. Everything comes in time.”

“Hmm. You're right." Shamir rubbed the damp from her eyes, allowing a smile to stretch her lips. She slid the bangle onto her wrist, admiring the faint lines of steel. The pattern was not as it was when it had been a dagger, but that was perfectly fine. After all, it was forged into something unique by someone she loved dearly. _Jagged. Splintered. But not ruined. __ממש כמוה וכמוני__. _There was a certain poetry to that. Perhaps Catherine was more romantic than she insisted. Shamir kissed the metal gently. Then, she peered up at her partner from beneath her lashes.

“I love it, Catherine. Yet I think you missed a golden opportunity.”

“Pardon?” The former Knight frowned in confusion.

“I just meant that if you wanted to propose, you wasted a valuable resource. Steel is prettier to look at than iron.” Shamir spun the bangle, avoiding Catherine's flustered look. “You’ve already made me wait over five years now. I’m beginning to think you’re doing this on purpose.”

“I… I just thought it was too soon. Wait. Five years?”

“I did ask you before the war started. You never gave me a proper answer.”

“That was a joke! Wasn’t it? You never said…” Catherine blinked gamely before her brow furrowed. “Do you want me to ask? I can do it now—”

“It’s too late. The mood is ruined.” Shamir smiled at the other woman coyly. “However, I’m not opposed to you asking me another time. Maybe I’ll even say yes.”

“Is that a challenge?” Catherine relaxed, catching onto her game. She grabbed Shamir around the waist and tugged her closer. “When the time comes, I’ll make you the most gorgeous ring you’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.” Shamir stood on her toes and captured her partner’s smile. They melded together under the light of the forge. A winter breeze rustled past their knees. She sank into Catherine’s embrace, the warmth of home pushing away the cold.

_ואז היינו מאושרים_ _, _ _והעבר הובא סוף סוף למנוחות_ _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am both excited and sad about this, but here we are at last! I never intended for this to be as long as it is lol. But I also expected this to only get half the love and attention it did. I knew most of the people who follow me/are familiar with my past works might not be too keen on Catherine or Cathmir (and the pair itself isn't that popular in 3H ficdom) so I was hesitant about taking on this project. But I'm glad I did! Everyone has been great and supportive of my ideas. I can't thank you guys enough for being on this fic-journey with me. A ton of love went into this fic and I hope it was everything you guys could hope for in a CF-Cathmir happy ending. The adventures of Edie and friends are next on the docket, including what will happen next with Rufus. I will be returning to write post-TFaT Cathmir content when I can. (I may even have it in me to do a brief preview of what's to come in an epilogue) If you want to keep track of what I'll be writing, feel free to check out my twitter [ https://twitter.com/AdraCat ] as I will be posting frequently there. The rest of my notes are going to be dedicated to explaining why I chose certain events/ideas/names so if you're not keen on reading through all the nitty-gritty details you can skip. Thank you all for reading!! Comments are very much appreciated, but I adore my silent readers too. Love you all and I hope you have a very excellent day <3 - AdraCat
> 
> [Writing talk]  
Names: I believe I already talked about Faerghus and its relation to the Ulster Cycle and thus why I used certain names for locations, but I'm going to explain that a bit more. When I conceived of TFaT, I wanted to include a tale of a certain hero, Cú Chulainn/Setanta, and parallel it here as tribute. He's one of the more well-known and notorious figures in the UC, so I thought it would be fitting. Doubly so since his tale involves a smith. As such, many of the names in this fic are directly pulled from his myth. Culann (Chulainn), Aife, Connla, and even Fruich (the Bull of Cooley). For our smith char, I derived him from a Germanic and Scandinavian figure named Wayland; a legendary smith. This figure is thought to have been mentioned briefly in a poem, The Lament of Deor, alongside Beodohilde (Bothild).  
[Welund tasted misery among snakes.  
The stout-hearted hero endured troubles  
had sorrow and longing as his companions  
cruelty cold as winter - he often found woe  
Once Nithad laid restraints on him,  
supple sinew-bonds on the better man.  
That went by; so can this.  
To Beadohilde, her brothers' death was not  
so painful to her heart as her own problem  
which she had readily perceived  
that she was pregnant; nor could she ever  
foresee without fear how things would turn out.  
That went by, so can this.]  
Their circumstances are not quite paralleled, and mostly there by my own whims. I just thought they would be neat. Moving on to our next topic~
> 
> Events of Fhirdiad: When I originally thought of this fic, it was a sad piece where Shamir goes back to retrieve and bury Catherine's body. Then I thought, 'Well, that's depressing. How about I don't do that?' So I had Catherine live, but I wasn't sure whether or not to take her leg. As I thought on the theme of 'choice' I realized I didn't want to completely cripple her. Not only because of my concerns about covering amputation adjustment with enough realism, but also because I wanted her to regain agency. Catherine needed to heal enough to the point where she could fight, if she wished. Then she could choose for herself whether to pursue vengeance. From birth, her choices has already been made for her (heir to House etc.) The pattern continued the moment she stepped into the church. I wanted Catherine to finally live on her own terms, instead of being beholden to orders/expectation. Plus Shamir gets to be happy instead of the agonized figure she would have been in the alternate fic. I see that as a win!
> 
> Why Smithing?: I unabashedly adore metallurgy. It's one of the coolest things in the world to me. But also when I first started getting into it and talking with people who shared the same interest, I discovered a tiny pattern. Lots of people were using smithing for catharsis. It provided a physical outlet for their emotions that was far more constructive than many other things. Perhaps I romanticize it a bit, but I do honestly think there's a beauty in the physicality of it. It's a process that seems brutal and violent but is far from it. I wanted to share the love I have for it with you all, but also with a character I felt could stand to gain a lot from it. Thus you get this beast of a fic lol.
> 
> That wraps up everything for now, but if I think of more later I'll be sure to come back and add to this space. If you have any questions yourself on my writing please drop by my curiouscat page: https://curiouscat.qa/Cat_of_Adra


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